---

I chose to sit in the overflow seating at my father’s funeral. Through a fuzzy speaker I listened as his new family eulogized a person who woke up every day with a smile on his face. His stepson wept as he declared that he considered my father, Alan Abrahamson, his real father.

That was in January, when authorities believed my father had been murdered during his morning walk to meet a friend for a cup of coffee. A man and his two dogs had discovered a lifeless body in a Florida field. A single shot to the chest, and no sign of a weapon.

The death made sense to no one, including the Palm Beach Gardens police department. “These things don’t happen here,” a detective told me.

Six weeks later, I received a phone call. The police had determined that the bullet wound was self-inflicted. My estranged father, who woke up with a smile on his face every day, had been meticulously planning his suicide since 2009.

According to a 73-page police report, he spent years researching terms like “Nembutal lethal dose” and “antifreeze poisoning” before he landed on what he must have thought was a foolproof plan: He tied a gun to a helium-filled weather balloon. A launch simulator showed that the balloon could have sailed more than 95,000 feet into the air before bursting over the Atlantic Ocean.

Alan Abrahamson died alone, at age 71, beside a patch of purple weeds.

The exhaustive report included details like the way his head was pointing — to the west. But it didn’t include answers to the questions that haunt me when I’m pumping gas or packing my 3-year-old’s lunch. Did he go to sleep the night before he died? What was his last thought before pulling the trigger? Was he crying? Did he die thinking I didn’t love him?

The last time I saw my dad was nearly two years before he took his life. We met for dinner in New York City, where my husband, Dave, and I were living at the time. Our daughter, Nora, was 9 months old. We sat in a booth and Nora chewed on saltine crackers. When the server took our order, my dad said he would just have a cup of lentil soup. He patted his gut. “I’ve got to slim down for Ben’s wedding,” he told me. Ben was the stepson. I was relieved that it would be a quick meal because our conversations were strained. But part of me was sad, too.

“Are you happy?” he asked me. I told him I was. I loved being a mom. I loved Dave. Living in a 550-square-foot studio not so much, but we were looking to leave Manhattan.

I returned the question.

“Oh, very much so,” he said. “We drink every night. It’s one big party!” He began to gush about his golf cart and swimming pool.

The police report showed that three days after our dinner, he typed “undetectable suicide methods” into his phone. This was not the first such search.

From what little my dad said about his childhood, it seemed lonely. He was largely raised by a live-in housekeeper.

My father never hit me. He rarely yelled. But he was withdrawn and distant. He went to work, then came home for food and stared at the television. I thought it was us, I thought we were not enough for him. And now I think he must have been depressed. That is how depressed people behave.

But my dad cried at college drop-off. He didn’t mean for me to see. I called out one final goodbye from the porch of my dorm, and when he turned around there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away quickly. It was the first and last time I would ever see him cry.

The summer I turned 21, he visited me in Santa Cruz, Calif., where I was living with friends and taking classes. He was trying to make up for lost time but it was too late. It felt awkward. We were overly polite, and ran out of things to talk about.

On the last day of his trip, we went to a sunset happy hour. “This is the best part of fatherhood,” he said, raising his glass. “Being able to have a beer with your kid.”

The comment stung. It stayed with me. “I don’t need another drinking buddy,” I wanted to say. “I need a dad.” He didn’t know how to be one. He himself had never been parented. It wasn’t his fault. Deep down I always understood that.

He and my mother separated the following summer after 28 years of marriage. That was 2003. I chose my mom. I didn’t have to take sides, but I did. I flooded his email with hateful letters, blaming him for everything wrong in my life. “You were a terrible father,” I wrote. “I will never forgive you. I won’t go to your funeral.”

Things only got worse when he remarried and developed a close relationship with his stepchildren. For them it seemed he couldn’t do enough. I spent hours staring at pictures on Facebook. The proud dad at graduation. The proud father of the bride. I wondered what made them better than me. I concluded that the difference was, he didn’t have to raise them. They were grown-ups. He could drink beers with them. But I believe he loved them very much.

My anger began to lessen when I got married in 2014. I once read that a good relationship can heal old emotional wounds, and for me that proved true. We began to text and there were even occasional visits — like that time we met for lentil soup — but things were never great. I never met his family. During his murder investigation, I was interviewed as a person of interest.

On Thanksgiving, his last one on earth, he sent me a message asking if I wanted to talk. “If so, I’ll call,” he wrote. I never replied. Another read: “Have so much I want to talk about. Maybe one day if you are ready.” I ignored that too. I didn’t feel like dealing with it; there was just too much to unpack. Another day.

People have asked me, “Was it harder when you thought he was murdered?” And my answer is no. The suicide is harder. It is so much harder. I thought he died in his prime, a happy guy on his way to meet a friend for a coffee. And my dad knew that. He knew a homicide would be easier for us. He knew we would blame ourselves for missing the signs. He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know. Detectives were unable to find a motive. But he spent nine years obsessively searching for ways to end his life.

My dad told us so much about himself in his method. He tried to protect us all. That is how he said goodbye.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562386)

Rachel Paula Abrahamson is an editor of stories about parenting, based in Massachusetts.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562394)

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/08/03/well/my-father-staged-his-suicide-to-look-like-a-murder.html

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562430)

"Essays" have just become women reciting details of their own lives or feelings. No attempt to make a point or acknowledge the reader or the universe in any sense.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562512)

"He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know."

How could you write these three sentences in a row and not make ANY connection.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562576)

The thing I really take issue with is that the New York Fucking Times let this piece of shit essay get published. It provides no insight or value to the reader at all.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562892)

Rachel Abrahamson

‏Verified account @rachelpaula

Aug 1

Sent out seven emails to nannies on http://care.com last night. No replies. This reminds me of when I was on OkCupid

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562437)

speak for urself

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562495)

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

OH WHAT A MYSTERY

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562497)

Rachel Abrahamson

‏Verified account @rachelpaula

Jul 4

I was age 38 when I learned that you don’t have to pull your one piece bathing suit down to pee& can just pull the crotch to the side

https://twitter.com/rachelpaula/status/1014576913191489536

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562514)

*treats father like shit for 15 years*

*tweets this after he killself, making it all about her*

*writes screed wondering what tormented her father to killself*

Haven’t cried about my dad’s suicide in a bit.I never watched Anthony Bourdain, but his death has me rattled& I am sitting in my car listening to “don’t give up” and crying insteaD of going in to pick up dinner. And I know my dad would hate that I am doing this. #youareloved

2:32 PM - 8 Jun 2018

https://twitter.com/rachelpaula/status/1005200928968933377

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562718)

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

He knew I would blame myself, the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36562824)

Rachel Abrahamson

‏Verified account @rachelpaula

Apr 22

Sometimes I will pick a fight with Dave on purpose when he gets home from work because I don’t feel like taking care of the kids and then I can just close our bedroom door and pretend I am in there angrily sulking

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36564047)

Sounds like he forgot to search for ways to clean up his digital trail.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36564327)

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

My father was tormented by something. By what, we don’t know.

the estranged daughter who had not called him on his birthday in 15 years, who told him she was getting married but then said, “It’s best that you don’t come.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36566467)

Shouldn't any self-respecting editor say, "hey - so this is interesting and all, but what exactly did your Dad do that made him so horrible? like can we add one anecdote?"

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36567539)

Some good work in this thread, but this chick is so insane that her being interviewed slipped right under the radar. She doesn't elaborate, but how often do you suppose dotters are considered a suspect when their father is killed? What's more, it really has nothing to do with the overall point she's trying to make, but she does mention it because that way the story is more about HER. Would love to hear the stepkids tell their side of the story.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36569793)

https://twitter.com/rachelpaula/status/1025856846144434176

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4043446&forum_id=2#36569909)