Fatherless

I don’t exactly know when I stopped considering my father to be my father. Maybe it was the first time my mom told me he had gone to jail. My four year old self looked up at her in anguish as I realized that he had never been on the “business trip” my mom had told me he had gone on in order to protect my heart. Or maybe it was the first time I had visited him when he got out. How he and his new wife spent everyday in bed smoking cigars and neglecting the seven year old girl they had under their roof. I had survived that week off of bologna sandwiches I made myself for a whole week because that’s the only thing I could find. I stopped eating bologna after that. Could it have been the last time I ever visited him in jail? My twelve year old self sitting across from him at the table with my sister beside me holding my hand as I tried so hard to keep the tears that threatened to fall down my cheeks at bay as he called me fat and ugly, and blamed me for him being in jail in the first place. Maybe if I had been a better daughter and not stressed him out so much he wouldn’t have turned to drugs and wouldn’t be in jail in the first place.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when I had given up on calling him my father, but I do know that I never really had a father to begin with. He wasn’t there for my first steps or my first words. He never changed a diaper. He wasn’t there my first day of school, or when I got my first good grade. He didn’t teach me how to ride a bike. He didn’t take me out on Halloween, or buy me gifts for Christmas. He didn’t patch me up when I fell and got hurt, or hold me when I cried. He didn’t help me when I got my first bully, or support me with all the bullies that followed. He didn’t explain racism to me and teach me how to get through it. He wasn’t there to take pictures of me on prom night, or cheer for me at graduation. And he wasn’t there to witness me take my first steps into this big, new world all alone.

He wasn’t there. My mom was. My mom was there for every step, every word, every accomplishment, every milestone, every tear, and every smile. For eighteen years my mom had always been there. When she fell pregnant with me she hadn’t planned for this. To be a single mom that worked three jobs just to put food on the table and smile everyday just to make me believe that everything was going to be okay. She expected him to be there. To be the father he promised to be. But when he failed she took it all in stride. My mom raised me all by herself with no help from anyone else. There were a lot of tough times, but she never gave up, never lost hope, and most importantly she never walked away. Instead she smiled, worked harder, and told me that tomorrow would be a better day.

I don’t know what it’s like to have a father, but I do know what it’s like to have a strong mother. In a way, I think that’s better. Life was much harder with just one parent, but it was full of lessons. It taught me how to be independent. It taught me to appreciate everything I have because not one thing came without hard work. It taught me that having a single mother wasn’t a disability. I can do anything someone with two parents could do. I never did drugs or drank alcohol. I never even thought of dropping out of school. I went to college. And most of all I believe in love. I didn’t need two parents to teach me that, my mother showed me that all on her own by loving me every single day. Most of all, having a single parent taught me to be strong because life is going to throw curveballs at you that you’re not only going to have to deal with, but also find a way to get through. Having to take up the role of mom and dad was anything but easy, but I think my mom did a pretty damn good job.