9. Everyday Conversations

He always answered the phone on the second ring. The predictability was comforting.

After my mother died, I continued my long-established daily routine of telephoning. Only now, the person I spoke to was my father. He had an endearing habit of answering the phone with an exuberant “Good Morning” or “Good Evening,” as if he was expecting the call or the caller to have some exciting news to share. Even call centre employees were cajoled into sharing something personal before they could get to their scripted spiels. On those rare occasions when he didn’t answer, I called one of my sisters to see if my dad had mentioned any plans to go out. The three of us kept in close touch with him.

For five years after her death, my father remained in their shared home. Living alone didn't seem to unsettle him as much as I'd feared. Like many who've loved and lost, he simply carried on.

During my daily calls, I often quizzed him on how he was managing without his beloved Maria—my mother—and offered practical advice or instructions.

“Let the water boil before you put the pasta in.”

“Set the oven to 350.”

His desire to remain independent and cook at eighty-four both impressed and worried me. I applauded his efforts and breathed a sigh of relief when he mentioned that one of the Polish women in the community had dropped off a home-cooked meal.

My dad also did his best to fill the void his wife left in his life and in everyone else's. He even took coffee breaks with the woman who came to clean the house every two weeks, exactly as my mother had.

The relationship that evolved with my father after my mother died was unexpected. Without my mother to hand the phone to, we chatted about our day—they were pleasant, ordinary, everyday exchanges. Every conversation ended with "I love you," just like the phone calls with my mother had ended. And he added something new. "I am proud of you." It made me smile every time, and I believed him.

During one of our phone conversations, my father shared some interesting news. He reported that Krystyna, his first girlfriend in Poland and a widow by then, had telephoned him from Warsaw earlier that day and proposed they get together as a couple.

“Can you believe that?” he said incredulously. “I’m not interested at all, and I told her so.”

I believed him. My parents were married for fifty-two years, and I know they considered themselves a fortunate couple on a quiet path together. In my mother’s eyes, my father was a pillar of strength. In his eyes, well…he just loved her.

After my mother died, my father said he spoke to her every day. Maybe it was just after he chatted with God. He remained devoted to her and had faith that they would be together in the next life.

I was not surprised by his reaction to Krystyna’s call. Not once did my father express regret about choosing not to return to Warsaw and to the young woman he first loved in his youth. Throughout my life, the reasons for his post-war decision remained undiscussed. I assumed that living in the free Western world was the obvious choice for him to make. During my stays in Poland for the adoption of our children, I had gotten to know Krystyna quite well, but this late-life call from her caused me to wonder if there was something I had missed about their relationship. Still, I mostly thought about how crazy and difficult it would be for her to pick up her life and move to Canada in her mid-eighties.

At eighty-nine, my father announced that a new retirement home was being built in Smalltown. He was interested. A buddy he knew from church planned on living there.

I helped him choose an apartment from the floor plans provided in the residence's glossy brochure. We selected the one with the shortest walk to the parking spot for his car. The tiny alcove office had just enough space for his desk and room for shelves to accommodate all his binders brimming with his stamp collection.

For my father, moving out of his house proved easy. My mother had always planned and executed their various moves in the past, and he would take the same hands-off strategy time around. He let me pack up everything. He’d always had a sense of what to care about and what was not important and made no fuss about the lifetime of stuff he and my mother had accumulated. A decluttering guru was not required to instruct him to keep only what sparked joy in his life.

None of the lifetime’s accumulation of stuff mattered except for a few essential pieces of furniture—a bed, a couch, a desk—and his precious stamp collection. He wanted to leave the ornate dining room cabinet to the new owner, sensing that the young couple who had purchased his house might appreciate it. The rest could be shared among his three daughters or given away. For three days, I made ruthless decisions on what to keep and what to give away.

My father was happy in his new place, a bright apartment with three large windows overlooking the main entrance where, on sunny days, the elderly residents sat and viewed the comings and goings. Meals in the dining room meant he didn't have to cook. There was always someone with whom to exchange a cordial word.

When I asked him what finally prompted his decision to move, my dad said, “I was so tired after taking out the garbage to the end of the driveway that I had to take a little rest. The idea of not having to do this ever again was appealing.”

Freedom from tedious chores. That was my dad. He much preferred to focus on his stamps.

My father's ninety-year-old buddy from church, who moved to the retirement residence at the same time, informed his children he was giving up driving because he had a younger friend who could drive him to church.

"How old is your friend?" they asked with relief.

"Eighty-nine," the church buddy replied.

Each day, my father and his friend drove to church. When it became evident that he shouldn't be behind the wheel anymore, he sold his car. From then on, he either watched Mass on TV or relied on a much younger acquaintance who worked at the public library for a lift.

In the years following my mother’s death, I grew closer to my dad. It happened effortlessly. In contrast to my mother, he was an open book. The more time I spent with him, the more I observed his gravitational pull around people. He thanked everyone who helped him or extended a small kindness. There was a sparkle in his pale green eyes for every friend or stranger who crossed his path, and he greeted them with a smile or a firm handshake. When strangers asked how he was, he repeated his mantra: "I’m overworked and underpaid." People always chuckled, precisely the reaction he wished to elicit.

In his quiet, decent way, he was a force of good in the world. If he possessed a fault, it would be his unwavering tendency to see the world through a positive lens. Always turning towards the light, he sought the best in every person and situation, a strategy that generally served him well. There were moments when his steadfast refusal to confront, express anger, or address unpleasant matters left me feeling frustrated. It wasn't until after his death, when I delved into his full story, that I truly understood why embracing the light mattered so profoundly to him.