A third spent their weekends volunteering at an animal shelter.
Each time, he seemed genuinely confident.
Yet none of them ever remained.
Initially, I thought they just weren’t compatible.
Dating was complicated.
Two people could spend a pleasant evening together and still realize there’s no future for them.
This was what I kept telling myself every time another woman stopped responding.
Then I noticed something impossible to ignore.
All the relationships ended exactly the same way.
The date always went very well.
Afterward, my dad would call me and describe the restaurant, their conversation, and the little moments that made her laugh.
He never gave the impression of being proud.
He looked relieved.
They were always making plans for another date.
The next morning, she was gone.
No phone calls.
No message.
No explanation.
The first time, Dad thought she was busy.
Second, he believed he had misunderstood her interest.
By the third episode, he blamed himself.
“Maybe I talk too much about your mother,” he said.
“You almost never mention her when we go out together.”
“Maybe I’m too old-fashioned.”
“You held the door open for her. That’s not a crime.”
He managed a tired smile, but my reassurances never really reached him.
Every rejection broke his heart.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered.
“They all looked so happy.”
Watching him lose confidence in himself was painful.
With each disappointment, he grew closer to the quiet man he had become after his mother’s death.
He stopped singing again.
He was constantly checking his phone.
He reread old conversations as if the answer might suddenly appear.
The fourth woman disappeared after saying she wanted to introduce him to her sister.
The fifth one disappeared after making plans for the weekend.
When the sixth one did exactly the same thing, I knew something was wrong.
Six women might lose interest.
This was possible.
But not all six women would disappear the morning after promising another date.
I asked my father if anything unusual had happened during those evenings.
He looked genuinely confused.
“No. Why?”
“Did you argue with them?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you say something that might have scared them?”
His expression became more tense.
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He turned to the sink and began rinsing a cup that was already clean.
I knew I hurt him.
“I just want to understand,” I said.
“Me too.”
That evening, I called my best friend Rachel and asked her a favor.
We had known each other since college.
Rachel was painfully honest.
She could captivate an entire room, but she could also spot a lie before most people had even finished telling it.
If my father did something wrong, she noticed.
“Go out with him once.”
She laughed.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I’m serious.”
His laughter died away.
“Lola, that’s your father.”
“I know.”
“And he knows me.”
“He only met you a few times.”
“That doesn’t make it any less strange.”
I explained everything.
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