I had been struggling against my father … an abusive husband, my faith, my anxiety, and all the injustices in the world

But to what end? I was more distressed and emotionally wounded than ever before. Therapy had become a necessity, helping me navigate the trauma of the sexual abuse inflicted by my father. It was July, and my father was preparing to leave for his annual fishing trip with his friend, Dr. Martinelli. I knew it was time to confront him. So, I drove two hours from Pacific Grove, California, to his house in Los Altos.

As I exited the car, he emerged from the house onto the front porch. At that moment, I felt a sense of assertiveness, personal power, and self-worth.

What I saw in my father’s face was a mix of depression, fear, guilt, and helplessness. I felt like I finally had control over the situation and was ready for a meaningful conversation. Then he spoke:

“I know you came here to talk. I’m ready for it. But can we wait until after I get back from vacation? I’m leaving this evening.”

His response caught me off guard. I was prepared to face him now, not later. Yet, I also recognized the importance of having this conversation in private.

“I’ll be back in two weeks. Then we can have all the time we need.”

“Dad, this conversation needs to happen. I will be back,” I replied.

I saw tears in my father’s eyes for the first time since I left home at 17. It was uncomfortable, but I hugged him.

“I need some clarity, and when I return, we should also address Mom’s passing. That conversation is long overdue. We should also discuss the camping trip with your girlfriend and her teenage son. I’ll be staying nearby for a few days so we can talk privately and take the time we need.”

“Whatever you need,” he replied.

I felt a sense of control over the situation as I drove home.

However, on July 26, 1988, nine days after that conversation, my father died during that fishing trip.

And he wasn’t in Montana, where he usually went. He was in Lowell, Idaho.

When a family friend called me at work to tell me my father had passed away, the first thing I said was, “For Christ’s sake, once again, he’s avoiding accountability for something that happened so long ago.”

It felt like he had won the battle. Damn it!

I was overwhelmed with anger and hatred, clinging to the hope that it was all just a terrible mistake.

He was gone. The final conversation I had been preparing for would never happen. I had to accept the situation and get ready for the big Italian family funeral, steeped in Catholic traditions and open to all.