Clark Hit Send

What happens when a father calls you difficult, and you believe him… until you don’t.

Content Note:
This piece includes references to emotional and physical abuse, estrangement, mental health struggles, and trauma. Please take care while reading.

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A few weeks ago, Clark blocked me on social media.

If you’re new here, Clark is what I call him in stories. It’s easier than Dad.

He’d argue. And sure, back in 2000, not eating every meal off a TV tray or cheating in broad daylight might’ve earned you a “World’s Best Dad” mug.

But we’ve picked the bar up out of the ditch since then.
He hasn’t. Because he still thinks the problem was my expectations.

Before he blocked me—
and before I wrote about his wife doing the same—
he texted to say I had made his job as a parent exhausting.
Because I was a difficult kid.

I’d heard it before. One of his favorite bits:

“It’s a wonder we ever had another kid after you. But we figured anything would be better than our experience with you, so we tried again and finally got it right!”

I’ve spent over a decade unspooling those kinds of lines on therapy couches.

The message didn’t come out of nowhere. Let me rewind.

My maternal grandfather was dying. I got a call saying the family spokesperson (self-delegated, for the record) thought Clark should be allowed to attend the service. Maybe even say goodbye in person while he was still with us… barely.

We don’t talk, but he sure loves to speak for me.
Like he’s still narrating the version of me that fits his plotline.

I used to think if I went to enough therapy, upgraded my vocabulary, sharpened my EQ, I could finally have a relationship with these penis-wielding goobers.

But emotional maturity is realizing you will never be fluent in caveman.

Because while I’ve laid on therapy couches, texted crisis lines from the bathtub at 1 a.m., written pieces like Ode to My Foot and An Open Letter to My Nervous System, checked into treatment centers, and filled out enough workbooks to kill a forest, they’ve just… existed.
Like prehistoric boulders.

I’m done pretending a man knows more about my life than I do.

Which meant I had to go directly to Clark.

It wasn’t my boundary-having, sage-burning self who called Clark.
It was the over-explainer.
The firstborn.

So I laid it out:

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to be at his deathbed. That’s time for Mom. And there’s no service right now, so I’m not sure why you’d need to be there.”

Clark thanked me. Said I could always come to him directly, that he liked my no-nonsense approach. Then added:

“In a normal situation, your mom and I would’ve worked this out ourselves.”

I snorted.

“What’s so funny?”

“Bro,” I said. “This family wouldn’t know normal if it backed over us in a Buick.”

We moved on. Briefly.
Then later, he texted, “Wait… what makes this not normal?”

I sent a bullet-point list.
After years of delivering PowerPoints on why I was the problem, I’m fluent in his dialect now—defensive, dismissive, slightly condescending.

He would’ve preferred it scribbled on a legal pad in church pen. But I did what I could.

Most of what I listed was recent.

But if Clark really wanted to know how broken things were, he didn’t need a list.
He just needed to look at Spokesperson.

Clark didn’t just leave a legacy.
He made a copy.
A sibling, shaped in his image.

Same blueprint: mock the feelings, escalate the violence, call it love.

The kind of guy who thinks he’s peacemaking but really just throws glitter on a dumpster fire and wonders why it explodes.

During college, when I was deep in self-harm, suicidal spirals, and a bubble bath, he called me:

“You’re ruining our lives over here. Depression’s just an excuse. You need to pray more, not destroy our parents.”

I told him to go to hell.
Hung up.

First time I said it out loud.
Not the first time I wanted to.

When he slapped me across the face during a visit at our parents’ house, I waited for someone to say something.
When he punched me on a “family vacation” in Colorado—with my husband standing right beside me—I waited again.

No one said a word.
Not even the man I’d married.

And Clark?

Well, he’s not in charge of that kind of accountability.
Just the blocking.

Because when Clark was choosing his parenting style back in 1990,
he chose violence.

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Have you seen The Sinner on Netflix? Jessica Biel plays a woman with severe childhood trauma. One day, she hears a song from a traumatic moment and snaps. Right there on the beach.

I cried watching that.

Not because I’ve killed anyone. Obviously.
But because I understood how deep that kind of trigger can go.

Mine isn’t a song.
It’s a tone.
A certain kind of voice.

When someone speaks through gritted teeth, something feral crawls up my spine.

We’ll call her Marge, the part of me that never fully relaxed.

That’s how he sounded.
Right before tossing me into a wall.
Holding me down and spanking whatever he could reach.
Dragging me down the stairs.
Busting my lip with the back of his hand.

It’s been decades.

Part of me knows he won’t do it again.
Part of me stays braced anyway.

And Marge?
She’s been training for this.

Because the impact didn’t end when the bruises faded.
It shaped everything.

It stays in the body.
It becomes the shadow behind decisions.
The jobs you shrink inside.
The partners who need fixing.
The shame you wear like proof.

And somehow, I distilled all that into a few key notes.

Silence.

---

After a 3 a.m. breakdown in the hot tub, I wrote a text.
(Deep breath.)

I know we’ve had this conversation a few times via text, given the history, but here we are again.

(I stared at the blinking cursor. Should I send it? Would he even read it?)

On May 21, you asked me a question.
On May 22, I responded, openly, thoughtfully, and vulnerably.
I even acknowledged that it might end up being a therapeutic exercise for me, given how often you leave these things untouched.
Later that day, you replied briefly and said you’d be taking time to process.

Since then, six days shy of a month… nothing.

“Little Meredith” still hears the echoes:
If you place your expectations for yourself on him, you’ll be disappointed.
He’s told you not to have unrealistic expectations of him.

But here’s the thing: this expectation isn’t unrealistic.

I’ve rarely felt like a priority to you. That hasn’t changed with time.

Feeling invisible to a parent hurts.
Even now, my fingers twitch like they expect to be punished for saying it.

My message on 5/22 was an opportunity… for clarity, apology, growth.
Instead, it became just another unanswered thread.

Maybe you see things differently. But from where I stand, it’s the same story: silence, distance, and me wondering what I could’ve done to matter more.

What kind of skill, achievement, or change would have made me visible to you?

But here’s the difference now: I’m proud of who I am.
And if being seen by you required becoming someone else, someone you’d approve of…
I don’t think I’d be proud of that version of myself.

“Little Meredith” still longs to be noticed.
But it’s my job now to protect her.

Years ago, I would have said we both wanted an adult relationship.
I’m sorry we haven’t been able to move past the childhood one.

No need for a response.
I wish you all the happiness, Dad.

---

When I ask for a response, I don’t get one.
When I say there’s no need, he can’t help himself.

He responded.

And that’s how we got here.

“I’m sorry you have all these unresolved feelings.”

Not “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Just sorry I’m still emotionally cluttered over the childhood he gave me.

He reminded me that parenting is hard.
Because that’s news.
And that I was a “challenging child.”
Which is code for: You were difficult. So everything we did? Kind of your fault.

Not an apology.
Just a rebrand.

Then came the disclaimer: I “can’t understand” his choices because I’m not a parent.

As if you need a child of your own to know dragging one down the stairs is wrong.

Followed by:

“You have a fair bit of judgment… that frankly you aren’t qualified to render.”

He also let me know he’s “done apologizing” for my childhood.
Apparently healing is a punch card.
And I was in the wrong line.

Oh, and somewhere between “I love you as much as a father can love an adult daughter,” and “You’ve never just texted to ask how I’m doing,” he mentioned reviewing our messages.

Years of them.

To prove I don’t reach out enough.

Because what matters most here is how often I check on his emotional wellbeing.
Not the years I’ve spent untangling the mess he left behind.

He called it a boundary.
I called it the final confirmation.

---

I used to think it happened in 2018.

When I left my husband and fled to a barn in Missouri on Halloween.
The snow came early that year. Just my luck.

Fresh out of Florida. No coat. No money.
I layered cheap leggings under ripped jeans.
Still cold. Still soggy.

I sat at a round table in the barn.
Three notebooks open. Blank Word doc glowing on my screen.

I thought I’d had the epiphany:
I wasn’t writing my own story.
I wasn’t even the hero in it.

Because every time I tried, I started with the script they handed me:

“Born to two young parents on January 26, 1990. Came into the world screaming.
Refused to let them sleep.
Despite a loving home and every need met, she was mentally ill from the start.
An addict.”

And then I’d freeze.

That was what they rehearsed into me.

But it wasn’t the truth.
And I’m done pretending a man knows more about my story than I do.

So I wrote.
For years.
Kept it locked away.

Not sure how, or if, I’d ever share it.

And then Clark hit send.

And for the first time, I knew exactly how the story would end.
I’d write the ending myself.

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This is my version of events, remembered through my brain, which—like all brains—has its quirks. Names and identifying details have been changed or omitted for privacy and dramatic pacing. If your version of the story looks different, that’s fine. You can write your own essay, too. I won’t block you.