Father Daughter

Happy Father’s Day to the man who created me. The man half responsible for my existence. Even though you weren’t there during my upbringing, you shaped my life in many ways.

As a child, I remember sitting on the front porch waiting for your dark red Blazer to pull up in the driveway. I thought about all the fun we would have on my short, two days with you. I pictured us playing at the park, going swimming, and watching TV together. I sat there for two hours, waiting. Every car that would turn on to our street, I would get a glimmer of hope, but it wasn’t you. After dark fell, I began to worry. What if you were in an accident? What if something bad happened? My mom would call me inside for dinner, and tell me he was probably running late. As my bedtime approached, I learned your first lesson.

As a preteen, I worked hard in my ballet classes. I wanted to be a professional ballerina. I was the first one in my class to start pointe, and I had a solo in my next recital. I reminded you about it once a week, and you assured me you would be there. I called you the day before, and the morning before. You told me you cleared your schedule, and you’d be in the front row. I went out for my solo, and danced my heart out. I looked everywhere for you, and you weren’t there. I finished the rest of my recital in tears.

When I was a teenager, I came out to you. You preached at me about the sins of homosexuality, and when we went to church that Sunday, your sermon was about how gay people would burn in hell. You yelled at my mother for “encouraging my behavior,” and told her I wasn’t allowed at your house until I was, “fixed.”

I reached out to you before my wedding. I sent you engagement announcements, wedding invitations, and tried to call. I was ignored each time. My mother walked me down the aisle, and I fought back tears. Everyone thought I was emotional because of the wedding, but I really just wanted the storybook wedding that every little girl dreams of.

A year later, my wife and I were adopting our first child. I sent you a birth announcement, and a handwritten letter telling you that your granddaughter couldn’t wait to meet you. You called me, and all you had to say was, “What race is she? You’re going to confuse her by not having a dad. Who will she call dad?”

I didn’t speak to you for almost five years. You called me because you were homeless, jobless, and had nowhere to go. My wife and I took the time to drive twelve hours to you. We found you a government apartment, and helped you find a job. We bought you appliances, food, and a bed. We didn’t even hear a “thank you.”

I learned several things from you. I learned how to be a good parent. I learned how to love my child, no matter what. I learned that time is precious, especially time with your loved ones. I learned that when you do something nice for someone, not to expect anything in return, even if it is just a thank you. I learned so much from you, I’m kind of glad you were gone. Seeing the kind of person you are, I’d hate to know what I’d be like if I were close to you.

On this day, I want to wish my absent, intolerant father well, because without him, I couldn’t be the kind, loving person I am today.