“I don’t understand how you can let stupid politics destroy our family.” That’s the message my own dad sent me. I hadn’t visited my parents in two months, and for him, it was clear: I was an ungrateful daughter who didn’t care about them. But at our last family lunch, he called me a naive girl with a brainwashed mind right in front of my mom. Mom just gave me another dumpling, as if nothing had happened.
I never imagined I’d one day sit in my car outside my parents’ house, trying to convince myself to even ring the bell.
When I was growing up, we had one unspoken rule: no politics at the table. Dad used to brag that he was “apolitical.” News, he said, was just theater, not worth wasting time on. We’d rather go on a trip, work in the garden, or sit by the fire in the evening. He could tell stories that made Mom and me laugh all the way home.
That’s the dad I miss today.
In recent years, he started spending more and more time watching the news, scrolling social media, and watching videos people kept forwarding him. At first, I thought it was just a new hobby. But gradually, almost everything else faded away for him. The garden, his workshop, our family. Every conversation would last only until he found a way to steer it back to who ruined what and who was to blame.
During my last visit, I complimented Mom on her lunch. Dad immediately started talking about how much meat costs these days. Within minutes, he was ranting about politicians, about the people who vote for them, and finally about my entire generation.
I tried to ask if he’d fixed the door to the workshop yet. He didn’t even let me finish.
“You’re always worried about some door. Don’t you get what’s really going on here?”
I said I didn’t want to argue. That I came to see them and just wanted to know how they were doing.
“Then listen. Maybe you’ll finally learn something.”
I lasted a few more minutes. Then I asked if we could at least talk about something else during the meal. He put down his cutlery, looked at me, and said I was brainwashed. That I was naive and didn’t know what real life was like.
Mom dropped her eyes to her plate. I expected her to tell him to stop. Instead, she asked if I wanted another dumpling.
“Mom, did you hear what he just said to me?”
“Please, don’t start again. You know what your dad is like.”
Suddenly I felt like I’d ruined lunch just by speaking up. Dad could raise his voice, insult me, and keep going. I was supposed to stay quiet so there would be peace.
I finished my lunch. Over coffee, I barely said a word. When I left, Dad wondered why I was leaving so early. He’d apparently already forgotten about the brainwashed comment. I heard it echoing in my head the whole way home.
I’ve been living on my own for years, working, paying rent, and I have a partner. But at my parents’ table, I turned back into a little girl who had to carefully consider every word. If I mentioned work, he’d find something wrong with it. If I talked about a vacation, I’d be called irresponsible. If I stayed quiet, I’d get asked why I was being so grumpy again.
Gradually, I started putting off visits. Once I blamed overtime, another time a cold. Then I just stopped suggesting any dates. I missed Mom, her lunches, and our house. But the thought of another Sunday at their table made my stomach clench.
The week before last, Dad sent a message. I hadn’t shown up in two months. Did I even realize I had parents? Would I only call when I needed something?
That last sentence hurt. I visited them because I wanted to see them. I never asked for help. But now it felt like Dad was looking for any excuse to explain my absence as selfishness.
This time, I didn’t make excuses. I wrote back that I love them and would be happy to visit. But I don’t want to listen to complaints at every lunch and leave feeling stupid just because I don’t agree with everything.
He replied almost immediately.
I’m ungrateful. I don’t respect my own father. And I’m letting “stupid politics destroy our family.”
I started writing a reply several times and deleted it again. I wanted to explain how much I missed him. Remind him of our trips. Ask if he really thought it was okay to talk to me like that. In the end, I put down my phone. I’d already said what I needed. His answer was right there.
That evening, Mom called. I thought she’d ask how I was. Instead, she told me Dad was upset and that I should be the one to make the first move.
“He’s not going to change. You’re younger, so be the more reasonable one.”
I asked her if being more reasonable meant coming over and letting myself be insulted again. She was silent for a moment. Then she said the house felt empty without my visits.
And that sentence almost broke me. Mom never calls me brainwashed. But she always sits next to Dad when he does. I don’t know how to see her without ending up in the same situation every time.
That evening, I sat with my boyfriend at a pub over a pretzel with cheese, checking my phone over and over. I felt cruel. He asked me when was the last time I came back from my parents’ in a good mood. I couldn’t remember.
I still love Dad. If he texted me tomorrow to go for a walk or fix something in the garden, I’d probably go. I wish I could spend a simple afternoon with him, without having to prepare comebacks for insults on the way there.
But that message hasn’t come yet.
Dad keeps asking why I don’t visit. He hasn’t asked how I’m doing.
Should a daughter keep visiting for her mother’s sake, or does she have the right to refuse another visit?
