The question of second chances is one that has become a cliché. Society has told us that the answer we give to this question is one that defines us. Many people answer “yes” when faced with this question because they actually believe they would give somebody a second chance no matter what; however, the majority of those people have never had to ask themselves, “should I give them a second chance”. My answer to this question altered many times as I faced my father’s alcoholism. Ultimately, I came to an answer I am now a firm believer in.

I hated my father. I despised him. I abhorred him. I couldn’t have cared less if I never saw him again. Truly though, I did love him. When he drank I did not know how I was supposed to feel about him. I wanted to love him because he was my father, yet his drinking made him a different person that I wanted nothing to do with. After a few years of his drinking, it was the only version of him I recognized. I was unsure whether that meant the person I hated was my father.

He started drinking from the stress of his dry-cleaning business, and he would spend all hours of the night working. One day, after my mom, my brother and I had come back from Target, I was partially asleep in the car. My mom went inside and an argument ensued between my father and her. When I became fully conscious I saw him chugging wine right next to the car. I hid until he left.From there on, fights became more and more usual between my parents. Eventually he sold his business and after that he would stay home drinking all day.

During the days he would drink and attempt yard-work. The house we lived in then had huge horse-apple trees in the front yard. Multiple times he got the ladder out and tried to trim them for whatever reason. He fell down a few times and got concussions. Since it was in the middle of the day, meaning everybody was at work or school, and we lived in a neighborhood where the houses weren’t squeezed together inches from each other, he could lay there for a couple of hours without anybody finding him. My brother, being only 8 or 9 at the time, did not fully understand the situation and told one of our classmates on the bus that our father fell out of a tree and had to go to the hospital because he was drunk. My face became red and the tears began to build up in my eyes.This was the first time I felt embarrassed by my father’s drinking.

One of the most traumatic events caused by my father’s drinking was just before Thanksgiving. It was around 1 in the morning and my parents were fighting, but not for just a few minutes. I heard a doorbell ring and it was a police officer. I now know my father had called the police to file assault charges against my mother. After the police officer left the house became still and my father had fallen asleep. My mother crept into my room and was whispering, but I didn’t understand why. She told me to pack clothes into my bag as quickly as I could and then went to my brother’s room. We went to the garage and slid into the car, and the slam of the car door woke my father up.

The next thing I remember we were pulling out of the driveway. My father was stumbling out of the garage pleading and crying for my brother and I to get out of the car. I stared out of the back window and a feeling of guilt settled at the bottom of my stomach. We returned from my grandparent’s house after Thanksgiving. When we walked in he had leftovers from an entire Thanksgiving meal that he had prepared for us days earlier set up in the kitchen.

He had gone to rehab multiple times and relapsed again and again. I had lost hope after 5 years of waiting for him to stop. After he drove drunk with my brother and I in the car during our vacation hundreds of miles from home, I made the decision to not love him anymore. I made the decision to give up all hope because if I held onto that last bit of hope I would only be let down again. I had given him second, third, fourth, and fifth chances. That was it. I was done with him.

On a Thursday during January 2009 he called me to tell me he was going to rehab again. I listened to nothing he said as he told me how he planned to get better this time. I didn’t believe he would ever get better. He called me from rehab, but I never listened to anything he said in those calls. I had made my decision.

After he got out of rehab my brother and I got to know our father for what seemed like the first time. It had been five years since my brother and had known him without the alcohol, and in that time we had grown to adolescence. It turned out this new father was actually a good father. After a few months I hesitantly let down my guard. He had become the father my brother and I needed him to be. It seemed impossible, yet it happened.

I continue to be surprised by how much he’s changed. I don’t see one glimpse of that person that alcohol made him two years ago. I understand why I made up my mind to never hope for him to get better anymore, but I’m glad I gave him another chance. The entire experience taught me the value of forgiveness which is just another word for second chances, or maybe even sixth or seventh chances.