I was a Daddy’s girl.
I had a terrific childhood and have wonderful memories of our close, loving family.
I adored my father. But when I was 23, he broke my heart and tore our family apart with his lies and deceit.
One evening in 1998, while I was living in London, I received a phone call from a hysterical woman demanding to know where my dad was. She was angry and frantically firing questions at me about his whereabouts.
I was confused and agitated - I thought it was a hoax at first. But then she started saying things about me she couldn’t have known unless she knew of me. Alarm bells went off in my head.
Megan as a toddler with her father.
He had married this woman, he had had a son with her. He was a bigamist.
My mum has known about the affair but thought it had ended years before. She was mortified to learn the extent of the deceit; that he had been living two lives a mere 100 kilometres apart.
Our lives and everything we believed was shattered.
A decade later, I went to Singapore to visit him and his second wife in an attempt to repair our splintered relationship, after my brother living there encouraged me to accept the past and forgive.
Megan and her father in Singapore in 2010.
Then one day during my visit, Dad took me out for lunch; delicious Singapore dumplings, my favourite. The conversation turned to the past, the present, and some difficult questions I had to address.
Dad was uncomfortable and distant. He finally told me that he had met THE love of his life and was ending his second marriage to be with her.
Turned out she was very young - my age, which stunned me. There was a child, and another on the way (and years later, a third child).
To say I was shocked would be putting it mildly. My anger exploded and I got up, pushed the table and dumplings all over him and walked off in a raging fury.
Here I was, after finally deciding to try and resolve things, and he had done it again. Living a double life, more kids, and breaking the law with bigamy. Again.
In the years after that we had a fractured and tense relationship.
Fast forward a decade and Dad was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. He had a couple of years at best.
He had been living back in Australia with his new partner and children and we’d seen each other now and then. I had provided a lot of financial help, and reluctantly been involved in too much of his personal life. At the time of diagnosis, we had regular contact on friendly, albeit difficult terms.
Megan with her father in the last week of his life.
It was all in the wording, the desperation. He did not ask me to look out for them, be there for them, be a supportive sister to them. All those requests were acceptable ones.
He asked me to “look after them”, in every way that means.
I held his hand and said, “Yes, of course Dad, please let go and be at peace”.
My dad was suffering a long and cruel death. I could ease his emotional pain by agreeing so he could die as peacefully as possible. It was the dutiful thing to do.
That was the last verbal conversation we had; he died two days later. My brother and I did not leave his side. He died surrounded by love, whisky, and music.
It wasn’t until later that the enormity of his request started to weigh heavily on me.
Anger set in, the audacity of him to even ask me after everything, and in those circumstances.
It should have been a rational two-way conversation. We’d had time to talk during long chemo sessions, through the waiting in hospital, the times he stayed with me, leading up to my wedding in 2019, and in his final months.
Megan with her father on her wedding day in 2019.
I dug deep in those final days, afraid of saying goodbye, holding onto angst. I felt deep regret leading up to his death and I felt duped. I had often initiated conversations with him to resolve the past, but these chats were challenging for him, he said very little. He was contrite for sure, he was aware of the effects on me, on us all, but he never really gave me enough for me to mend properly.
Grief was incredibly conflicting initially. There were the practicalities and logistics to attend to. Plus, I sidelined my own grief to look after the kids - my half-siblings - and ensure they were OK.
I love the kids very much, I want to be a great big sis. My heart breaks for them missing out on Dad so young. They deserve all the best of life.
But I’m learning it’s not my responsibility to ‘look after them’ as requested. I’m learning my boundaries and what I can do so that we have a fulfilling and positive relationship both ways.
I wish Dad had given me the choice rather than the last-moment desperate plea that invoked my sense of duty. He knew I would say yes, and that’s the part that vexes me.
Nearly two years on, I am learning to accept the past, be content with his passing, and the anguish I still had at the time.
It’s a work in progress.
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