Way to be brave, Tiffany! As a woman who feels exactly the same way about having children, it was deja-vu of conversations with my mother. I think it will get easier for you as time goes on. At some point she can blame it on your being "too old" to have children. So you've got that to look forward to :-)

Here's my response the prompt for this week. Like Tiffany, I welcome comments, "first takes", etc.
Becky

Father & Daughter Prompt


“Do you want a frosty mug for your beer?” Sometimes he does. Most times he opts for his proprietary technique of wrapping a paper napkin around the beer bottle, sealing it with a lick of his tongue. He swears it keeps beer colder than any other method. I pour mine into a frosty mug.

“Cashews or pistachios?”

“Oooh, pistachios sound good!”

We carry our nutrients to the porch swing on the brick patio we built together in the backyard. The patio & swing are strategically shaded by the 100-year old pecan tree. Locusts buzz in humid heat, cooled by the usual southwest breeze. Our tree and its neighbors use that breeze to speak their welcome to us. We settle into the swing, and veerry slowly move forward and back.

We both wear shorts and short sleeved shirts. We’re both barefooted. We both rock the heel of one foot to keep the swing in motion. His other foot is crossed over his thigh. Mine is propped on the seat next to my thigh, my knee folded at my chest. We look at the sky, the house, the blooming flower gardens that Mom meticulously cultivates. Silent reverie. Disturbed within moments by the not unusual thunder of a souped-up pick-up truck barreling down 14th street in front of our house.

He comments on the crumbling bricks of the patio.
“All that work we did. It’s only been 30 years, and it’s already crumbling. I guess we didn’t do a very good job, did we?” The number of years changes each time we sit here, but the sarcasm doesn’t. “Man! That was some back breaking work. It was almost as bad as working fields in the summer in Bownfield Texas. But not quite. I really couldn’t have done it without you, lovey.”

Doesn’t he know that I considered it a gift from him? I hungered for that time spent with just him, laboring, making mistakes and working through them, laughing, and tiring together. The first glimpse that we had reached a point of mutual respect: father and daughter; but not parent and child. It dawns on me that he’s telling me it was the same for him.

I think of all the questions I would like to ask. All the lost time I would like to make up for. I wonder what he’s most proud of. He’d probably give the typical response of “family” – his wife and children. At one time his grandchildren would have been included, but no more. I’d like to be able to exclude “family” as a response to that question. Would it be something he did in the wars? Something else in his career? Something specific he did as a parent – like telling my brother that he would support his going to Canada to avoid being drafted into the Viet Nam war? I wonder what his saddest moments were: When he had to stop flying? My brother’s death on a motorcycle? My sister’s back-stabbing divorce, and the following estrangement of his grandchildren? The deaths of his own parents? But right now, the answers to these questions are mere curiosities. They are much too serious at this moment. At this moment I imagine that we turn to each other and say simultaneously, “Do you know how proud I am of you?”

“Can I get you another beer?” I ask.