It was Father’s Day here in New Zealand yesterday, and fortunately there had been little build-up to bother me or my husband (or so I thought).
We got together with my father-in-law on Saturday night, because I had wisely advised our visiting relatives that it would be impossible for us to go out and get a table at any “quiet” café for Sunday lunch (a prospect I have avoided for 17 years and counting), and suggested that a dinner together would be much better received by the FIL (as I know it would).
So we made a fuss of this rather frail elderly man, which we were going to do anyway as his eldest grandchildren was leaving the next day, and then the other son and the rest of his family were leaving the day after, and he feels their departure overseas deeply every time they leave. I was fine with doing that, but the brother-in-law kept trying to insert the fact that he was a father into the proceedings. I interjected once or twice, pointing out that it was up to his family to celebrate Father’s Day for him the next day, and that Saturday night and the dinner we were enjoying was all about his Dad.
I was surprised however, when my husband spoke up, pointing out that they should all feel sorry for him, because he doesn’t get a Father’s Day ever, missing out completely. There was a brief, stunned silence, then everyone decided to toast him, and my niece cheerfully said that he needed to get some cats again, because then he’d be able to celebrate Father’s Day. It was nicely meant, rather than being blatantly insensitive, and we all laughed (but felt the difference) when my husband said,