I remember the first time I met my father. We met at some small third-rate restaurant in a suburb south of Stockholm where he worked as a cook. It felt strange to finally meet him, especially after all the effort that had gone into finding him. But there he was, right across the table. Up until then I had only seen one or two photographs of him, both taken sometime in the early 1960s, and I remember that I thought he looked old.

We were now trying to catch up with each other, both trying to play our designated roles: he the "father", and I the "son." It was very awkward. Fortunately there were a few other guests in the restaurant, so, from time to time, he had to get up and take care of them. We managed to mangle through a bit of smalltalk, and after a short while he went into the kitchen to cook for me — I remember that it was a something called "plankstek." We were both trying to reconnect. We both wanted to. But how do you reconnect with someone who you don't know and who you haven't seen since you were a little kid?

My father's name is Walter. I call him by his first name since he's really not much more than an acquaintance to me. He left us when I was about 4 years old, and I never heard from him until I looked him up. Actually, I do have a vague memory of him showing up once when I was 5 or 6 years old. He gave me a small toy tractor (red front loader, if I remember correctly). But, other than that, I have no memories of ever seeing him or talking with him, and neither has my brother.

Today, a whole lifetime later, I'm not entirely sure why I tried to find him in the first place. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe I was trying to find myself. Maybe both. Maybe neither. It doesn't really matter. I did it, and I'm glad I did. Not so much because of him, but because I also found my other sister. Walter had re-married, and with his new wife he had a daughter who was about 8 years younger than me. My mother had also re-married, and I had another sister on that side as well.

It wasn't easy to find Walter. He had once been a very successful chef, and had apparently worked all over Europe. However, when I found him, he was a mere shadow of his former self. He was an alcoholic, and he had been drinking a lot for many years. Although, back then he claimed not to drink so much during the week. I found him by asking chefs all over Stockholm. Many knew of him, but nobody seemed to know his latest whereabouts. The pattern was that he'd get a job, but then he'd eventually get fired for drinking too much. But everybody agreed that he was an outstanding chef when he was sober.

When he was sober he was one of those chefs who could make fantastic meals with whatever was available at the moment, even if it was just an onion and a potato. I visited him a few times in his apartment, so I got to see his genius at work in the kitchen. And I remember being impressed even as a teenager — this man could cook! But he would then ruin everything by getting drunk. When I stayed over on weekends, he'd basically start drinking on Friday evening after work, then drink all day Saturday and all day Sunday. He'd wake up in the morning and start the day with whatever liquor was left over from the night before. And when he was drunk, he'd get incredibly emotional and would start to cry.

He would tell me how much he had missed me and my brother over the years, and I remember thinking: "right, that's why you never called!" I couldn't help but get angry at him. I was the one that had found him. I was the one who came to him. I was the one trying to rebuild the connection. The least he could do was to not get so damn drunk that he'd pass out.

My brother only saw Walter once or twice all those years ago. But he hasn't seen Walter since, and it's very unlikely that he'll ever see Walter again. Frankly, I don't blame him. Finding Walter was actually a tremendous disappointment. I really wanted to find my "father", probably because at that time I didn't get along at all with my mother and stepfather. Why? Let's just say that my teenage years were somewhat tumultuous (there's a whole slew of potential blog posts just on that topic alone). I can blame myself for many things, but not everything was my fault, and I'm pretty sure I paid for it all (and in some ways am probably still paying). Maybe I thought that finding Walter was going to fix things. Maybe I was hoping find strength, courage, whatever .. I really don't know. All I remember now is feeling disappointed.

I only visited Walter a few times that year. Every weekend was the same — he was drunk, and so was his wife — so I simply stopped going there. The years went on and we had no contact at all, although I did have sporadic contact with my sister. Eventually I moved to the States and started my own family. When my oldest daughter was about two years old, I went to Sweden with her, and I decided to meet Walter again. I wanted him to meet my daughter, and I guess to some extent I also wanted him to see what had become of me.

We met again in some third-rate restaurant where he worked occasionally. The idea was to meet in a public place so that we could leave quickly and easily, should I decide to do so. Obviously, my expectations were very low, and Walter didn't fail to disappoint. He looked so old and tired, and I actually felt a little sorry for him. Walter was so happy when he met his granddaughter, but I decided then that I would never see him again while he was still drinking.

The years went on. My life changed a lot, as did Walter's. His wife died of liver failure, and my sister told me that this absolutely broke his heart and spirit. He kept drinking, and as I understand it, the drinking got even worse. In the meantime, my life had turned into real roller coaster. My (now) ex and I had another daughter, but our marriage had become very difficult. Constant fights and constant threats of divorce, and it kept getting progressively worse. Sure, as with any roller coaster, there were highs and lows, but in our case the "highs" got lower and lower, while each "low" felt like a bottomless pit.

With each low, I got one step closer to walking away. But I couldn't. I absolutely did not want to become my "father." I was not going to walk out on my children. So I stuck it out, fight after fight, year after year. In hindsight, this was probably not a good decision. I thought that if I stayed, that we — my ex and I — could somehow fake it and maintain the family spirit for our daughters. I was wrong. The girls became witness to more and more of our fights, and each time the tension between my ex and myself lingered for weeks. The situation became impossible, and in the end I had to leave.

I'm not sure what I would say to Walter if I saw him today. Through my sister I've heard that he has been sober for many weeks now. I don't know what got him to stop, or whether it will last. But apparently his last check-up showed that he was very sick. Maybe he realized his mortality this time. Who knows? I don't even know what I feel. On the one hand I don't care what he does or doesn't do, on the other hand I'm so damn angry. But how can I be angry if I don't care? And I also feel a little bit sorry for him, even though I know that in his case everything is self-inflicted.

I know one thing, though, I will never abandon my daughters the way Walter abandoned us. Never! Sure, staying in contact with them isn't easy, especially since they live 450 miles away. But I visit as often as my finances allow, I send them surprise packages with small gifts from time to time, and most importantly, I make it a point to call them a few times every week. I want them to know that I will always be there for them, and that I love them. I left my ex, not my children.

Walter, all you really had to do, was to call every once in a while. I didn't learn much from you, but I think I'm a better father because I worked so hard not to be like you.

-martin.