Reply by Sam Lamplugh

I haven’t talked to my father for thirty years, and this news doesn’t change anything (it’s impossible to talk through three decades of life; the silence is too full – (though I should preface this by noting he has tried to talk to me during this time (very recently, in fact, for obvious reasons (via the usual channels on social media et cetera (which channels, incidentally, were a big part of why I broke off contact in the first place (in that they facilitated his transgression (though there was more to it than that, of course (the ‘more than that’ I’ll get to presently (not that I use them myself (the channels (at least, not until recently (and not for the purposes he used them (or, I think not (I’m sure not, actually (unlike my father, who was sure of nothing, acting merely on a kind of base libidinous impulse (as far as a man happily married for twenty years with a son on the cusp of adulthood as he was then can be said to have any kind of ‘libidinous impulse’ (though this contention might be tacking dangerously close to precisely the kind of misogyny he displayed during the period in question (by which I mean before I broke off contact (not that he gave me much of a choice (although ‘give’ is a strange term, as his actions were ever take, take, take (albeit couched in a belief that everything had been taken from him (by his wife, by his child, by the life he had chosen (whether or not he accepted that this life had been chosen by him (at the time I suspect he felt it had been foisted upon him (something like feeling he was under an increasing amount of weight (a sense, maybe, that he was being literally crushed by his life, the expectations and responsibilities of it (which, to be fair, I can sympathise with, if not with his solution (that is, if you can call what he did a ‘solution’ (a ‘solution’ in the sense that cutting off a finger is a ‘solution’ to a painful hangnail (or, maybe, an entire hand (or an arm (or just going all-in and beheading yourself (but I digress (as he did, of course, digress from myself and my mother (not that I mean to suggest by putting her second that it was in any way her fault (though he certainly thought it was (her fault, that is: for asking him to be around more, to do the dishes once in a while (perhaps I should do the dishes more at home, now I think about it (and, maybe, spend more time with the boy (not that I’m like him (my father, not my son (who is in many ways totally unlike me (which is fine (we have a good rapport I think (he showed me how to make a profile on the newer apps (as I taught my own father how to use the rudimentary messaging boards of my youth (much as I came to regret that (not to suggest that what happened was my fault any more than it was my mother’s (who, incidentally, used one of these more modern channels to let me know what was going on (before I heard it from him (even in old age the man is still a selfish bastard (though perhaps it would have been selfish not to tell me at all (not that it has anything to do with me, really (after what he did (and a lifetime in-between (a grandchild he’s never met, among other things (so many other things (which things he could easily have had access to (have embraced, even (though I understand now that you don’t always have to embrace, you just have to be around (which I could stand to be more, I accept (though this isn’t about me, it’s about him (what he did (which, while perhaps facilitated (mechanically, at least (in the sense that message boards are mechanisms (which the articles I’ve read since often argue the concept of (the idea of electronic communication being mechanical, I mean (which articles and their contents are precisely the sort of thing we could have discussed (as part of my lifetime, I mean (though without his transgression I might not have read them (but who can know what future awaited them after an imaginary juncture in their past (not that we don’t try to (imagine, that is (as I’ve imagined what I would say to him if we were to contact each other again (by which I mean if I was to reply to him (my laptop at home opens to a screen of his messages (his monologue (the last one from only two days ago (as I’ve already said (I don’t want to repeat myself (though repeating himself is all he did, at the end (apologies, mostly (then recriminations (I heard them from my bedroom, as I packed my things up to go to university (I wish I’d listened better (though you can understand a whole conversation just from tone (the last word I heard him speak was a door slam (by the time I’d come back for the holidays my mother had already thrown him out (which was her prerogative (I didn’t blame her (besides, the house was in her name (though I worry that noting that is just misogyny-in-negative (‘imagine, a woman owning her own home’ (which home was never his again (a fact I’m sure he complained about to the other woman (the one he met on the chatroom (who was twenty-five years his junior (so barely older than I was at the time (not that that’s really the point (I mean, most married men talk to younger women (I have, occasionally, on the app my son installed for me (though in a totally different way (and, I hope, without my father’s belief (which belief, ultimately, was what kept me uncommunicative all these years (by which I mean the belief that a woman’s value is connected only to her fertility, youth, or whatever (a belief I certainly don’t share, though I have of course noticed my wife growing older (but, in my case, with pleasure (like appreciating the increasing width of an oak tree (a trite example (though not as trite as the message he sent me, his diagnosis (as if I should care what happens to him in the last months of his life, after all this time and everything he did and has done (an entire lifetime ago)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​))​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​)​) and so, in the end, when my son finally asks, I tell him: we have nothing to talk about).