When I was ten years old, I clearly remember this one memory of my dad. It was the day before my birthday, and I was on my way to a friend’s party who had a similar birthday. For the tenth time, I had no phone call or even a present or card from my father. It wasn’t anything new — I was used to this at this point, but I was nevertheless upset that my father, again, had forgotten that I had existed.
I spent that whole night sad and crying, wondering:
Why was my friend’s father so present?
Why did she get such a nice present, packed perfectly in a pink bag with ruffles, while my dad didn’t manage to send a card?
Why did this father hug and congratulate my friend and help blow the candles out for her birthday, and my dad couldn’t even call me?
As a young child, I didn’t fully understand why a parent would just abandon their child, while others had such a present loving father always in their life.
As I grew older, the wound grew bigger. Ten birthday candles turned to 11 — and that’s when I first met my mystery father, or as my mother called him, the “sperm donor.” . It was court-ordered, of course — not out of his desire to meet his daughter.
When I got ready that morning — putting on my best body suit and Limited 2 pants, brushing my hair endlessly to make myself “perfect” — I thought if maybe if I looked perfect, he would love me more. Maybe if I acted perfect, he would want to be a part of my life.
I met this stranger of a man and his new wife at a broken-down diner close to the courthouse. It was a rainy and slushy winter day. Elvis Presley played on repeat in the background. I was very nervous: this was a lot for a small child’s brain to undertake.
We made small talk, “Wow, the weather is bad isn’t it?” “Whats it like in sixth grade?”, “Who’s your favorite singer?,” almost trivial, and unimportant filler questions you ask a stranger in an elevator when it breaks down, but this was different, this was the first conversation I had with my father.
For years, I’d daydreamed about this moment—imagining how it would feel to finally face the man who left me. I had so many unanswered questions: Why did he walk away? Why was I always the kid with the single mom, the one who never had a father at school events or made a Father’s Day card in class? As this tall, sweaty man with a deep voice stumbled through small talk, I studied his every feature and gesture, trying to find pieces of myself in him.
Who was this man that I desperately wanted to love me, and want to hopefully begin to be my father?
It was a brief yet important meeting for me: I was meeting a piece of myself that day. His hearty laugh and funny disposition were similar to my own, although larger than the few pictures I had memorized. That day helped answer some questions for my eleven-year-old self, but still didn’t answer the fact of, “Why did you leave me?”
I found out he had two other daughters whom he was close with and took care of. This made me feel sad and angry all at once: why were these other children so special that he wanted to be their dad, while I was tossed to the side like a discarded gum wrapper. How did he choose to be their dad but ignore me? Why did they get nighttime snuggles, and Christmas morning surprises, while I was left with nothing?
My parents divorced when my mother was six months pregnant with me (I was planned — but their marriage didn’t go as planned.) After their divorce we moved in with my grandparents and family and my mother later went on to marry again…and then again.
My mother rarely spoke of my father, only to give me small tidbits of their life together — and the fact that she realized on their honeymoon they weren’t compatible. The only picture I had to form a true image of my father was a dated 1980s wedding album that I kept by my bedside.
As I grew older, my family situation became even more discombobulated. Never a stable household, my mother was divorcing yet another stepfather of mine (yes, there were three in total) we moved, moved again, and by the age of 14, I emancipated my mother. It was a tough, confusing and super stressful time. I had to digest a lot of life at a very young age and grow up faster than most.
When all of these issues did arise, my father came out of the woodwork and wanted a relationship! Finally, this man wanted to “help” me — and be a dad. It was almost as if he felt called to “rescue” me — and for about five years that’s exactly what he did.
With the help of my grandmother (who helped organize all of this with the hopes we would reconcile), we would meet once a week, have dinner at Chili’s or TJIFridays, talk about life, school, his work and heal, and that’s exactly what we did.
Life seemed “normal” for once, I had this father I had been longing for, for so many years in my life. As the weeks led into months, then years I did grow to love this man, and even called him dad. When it came time to pick a college, he told me, “I will pay for any school you want, you won’t have to worry!” He bought me my first car, helped teach me to drive, and it felt like I had a father for the first time in my young life. I put all my trust into him. During this time, I met his other children, who were my half-sisters, and had the instant family I always dreamed of and it seemed to be falling into place perfectly — until it all fell apart.
When I started school — a private college that was at the time paid for by my father —life was good. I was doing well, loving college, had a father who I thought loved me, then something happened, and he stopped returning my phone calls and stopped paying for school. He had financial issues that he basically didn’t want to disclose or face, so he didn’t want to face me, and he ran from me and the problems.
As the bills piled up, I got the call I had been dreading. I would have to leave college if the balance wasn’t paid. I was devastated. My life, just starting to find its shape, was unraveling again, because of him.
I called and called, desperate for help. Each time he refused to answer, or worse, just ignored my voicemails, it crushed me (and yes, I have PTSD to this day).
With no support from my mother either, it was my grandparents who stepped in. They paid the remainder of the bill, and I took on even more student loan debt, debt that, at 43, I’m still repaying. The problem was “fixed” but the deeper wound, the gaping hole in my heart that had been there since childhood, was now wide open.
This man, who I did put my faith into for a small amount of time, had done it again. The final straw was during my junior year of college: my very used car, broke down on the way to school. At this point I heard bits and pieces from this man and received bits and pieces of school tuition. After maybe 20 or more calls to see if he could help with the broken-down car, I gave up, deflated and heartbroken.
I was able to come up with the money, thanks again to my amazing grandparents, but the relationship with my father was never repaired. After that, I barely heard from him until his death seven years ago. Something in me had gone numb. I didn’t care whether he was around or gone. Why would I? He never truly showed up for me. So when I got the call that he’d had a sudden stroke and was on life support, I felt…nothing. And when he died, I still felt nothing at all.
I started to wonder, was I the monster? Was I the problem?
Then, two days after his death, I went to a cycling class. Midway through that gut-wrenching workout, in the loud, dark, sweaty room, something inside me snapped. Or maybe it finally cracked open. The roar of emotions I had stuffed down for years, sadness, anger, perseverance, betrayal, and an aching emptiness, came barreling up like a volcano. I began crying uncontrollably. I sobbed through the rest of the class. Then I walked all the way home down Second Avenue, tears streaming, emotions flying, as if years of silence were finally speaking.
When I met my now husband, I examined what type of man he was, and what type of family he came from. And was very apprehensive at first. He came from a family that was unfamiliar to me: a mother, a father who were still married, siblings who talked to each other and loved each other.
And a father that was funny, personable and although he was maybe tough on him as a child, was still a wonderful man. But as I let my guard down and fell more in love with this person, I asked myself, would he do the same things my father did: make promises then disappear? Would he do this to our kids and basically ruin their self-worth? And would he tell them one thing, then do another? Would he vanish? Would he always be absent from their swimming or track meets and nonexistent from their Spelling Bees?
Eighteen years later that man is my husband, and he is still here, and very, very present in our two beautiful children’s lives.
He is always center stage at our children’s sports events, always at a preschool graduation or there to read a book or kiss a boo-boo away. He wants to be included in everything to help our children flourish in life. He is always there to make sure his children, especially our six-year-old daughter, are loved and seen. There are always books before bed, hugs before they leave for school and he shows them just how special they are inside and out on a daily, if not hourly basis.
He is the father I wish I had, and he is the father I envisioned my children to have (which gives me so much happiness and joy!)
Although I wasn’t given a great dad, my father unknowingly taught me what to look for, and what to become. His absence shaped me into a strong, independent woman and a proud business owner celebrating ten years of running my own company in NYC.
Because of him, I knew exactly the kind of father I wanted for my children. And I found him, the best dad I could ever imagine for them, one who shows up, loves deeply, and gives them the life I once only dreamed of.
