My daughter’s father died.
We have been divorced for 54 years, give or take. Strangely enough, I had seen him during my high school’s 50th Reunion a few years ago. We actually stayed in the same hotel room (in separate beds of course) and forgave one another for what needed to be forgiven.
Since then, he would call me every once in a while to tell me about our daughter. How they had reconnected at last. How he had met his grandchildren. That he was proud of who she, and they, had become. And, of course, to remind me of how my youthful self had done him wrong. He believed it, and some of it was probably true, so I listened and occasionally apologized and learned what needed to be learned. I reconnected with his brother and sister-in-law during that visit, which is how she knew to call me.
I won’t go to the funeral. It’s 2000 miles away and it would seem odd. Besides, one thing I learned during all those calls is you gotta let the ghosts go, or they will drag you down.
Rest in peace Curt.