At first I found thing to be a much better set up.  I hated our visitation rights on the weekends back in Chicago.  His lifestyle was so different from my mothers and a weekend was not long enough for a child to adjust.  I dreaded going to see him every Friday, and prayed that he would get me back safely on Sunday.  So although I was sad to see him living so far away from me, I was also secretly relieved.

Now we were able to have entire months together.  I got to experience him in his natural environment and all the pieces stated coming together.  My summers in provence were some of the most amazing times a child could ask for.  The slow pace of the warm languid life of my father suited my summers just fine.  It was paradise, especially concerning my father and  our relationship had never been so peifect.  He never yelled at me, we never fought we just drank wine, bathed in the sun and made each other laugh.  Of course there were never any problems, but that's prettv easy for a parent to obtain when he's not in charge of getting me to school on time, or setting a curfew, or taking care of me when another boy has broken my heart.  So although our relationship was perfect wasn't real.

One summer, we had finished another meal late at night.  The crisp dusk of provence having just set in.  My father asked me how I ate back home in the states.  Did we all sit down to a real meal like we do here?  I told him that we didn't have time to do that back in America.  My mother was raisng my sister and me on her own, the three of us were not only busy but had conflicting schedules, and it was a rare night that we would all be home at the same time.  This insight into my life upset my father.  He told me how I wasn't getting the proper family values, how my life was devoid of culture and stability without that nightly gathering of family.  He told me that my way of life was wrong.  His words pierced me.  I tried to contain my anger.  Anger towards my father is not something I had expressed to him before and I didn't know how to do so, or if I even wanted to.

Before I had even made my decision though, my father sensed that I was getting upset.   He asked me what was wrong.  In a very meek voice filled with the promise of tears I told him I was fine.  But he persisted, forcing me to come out with my feelings.  Finally I burst out into tears of anger.  I told him that he had no right to judge my life in America when he had chosen not to be a part of it.  That he was in no position to judge me at all.  He chose not to have a hand in raising his daughter and now it was too late, and this was the consequence he had to pay.  The words flew out of my mouth, as if they had been perched there for years, waiting to find a way out I noticed when I was done yelliiig at him, that he too was crying, He walked over to wrap me in his armis and we collapsed into each other exhausted by such emotiom
We went to bed that night feeling purged and cleansed bit most importantly, for the first time, we felt real.