My parents divorced when I was four, then divorced when I was seven. My brother and I lived with our mother in the Bay Area, and my father hitchhiked between towns in the Central Valley, about a two-hour drive from us. We saw him once a month for birthday parties, holiday gatherings, or surprise weekend visits. And for a while, I didn't question his absence.
Most of my friends and relatives lived in single parent homes. Chloe's dad lived in Fresno, and every weekend she couldn't sleep with me because she'd visit him. This year, we won't be spending our opening Christmas presents with our cousin David, because we spent Christmas with him last year. For years, I thought most kids had either a parent who does it all — make breakfast, drop off at school, kiss treats; Or a mother and father who live separately and take turns parenting.
But on Thanksgiving, when I was eight years old, I was on the phone with my friend Danielle. She kept remembering her father: how he made turkey and cranberry sauce, how funny he looked giving her sister a piggyback ride, how he told her to hang up so the family could watch a Christmas movie. The third time she said "dad," it struck me that I didn't spend Thanksgiving playing with my dad. I didn't see him until that week. Do "normal families" have stuck parents? It was my family Not Normal?
I began to write down which of my classmates had both parents at home. When I was heading out to play dates, I noticed my dad was there when I arrived and resident there when I left. And looking from the stage at church plays and choir performances, I couldn't help looking for parents sitting with their families in the crowd. I have now seen my family dynamic in a new light.
No longer was a mother giving her children baths and dousing them every single night feeling good, she felt sad. When my dad called to say happy birthday, he felt like enough was enough; Now it is a cheap alternative. And the father who showed up for Christmas but not for the Easter egg hunt—even though he said he would—didn't feel good. I was disappointed. Comparison is a thief of joy, and seeing fathers everywhere made me lose my mind — or at least my thoughts.
One night that winter, my mother and grandmother found me curled up in bed, crying and asking questions no mother wants to answer: Why isn't dad here? Why did he leave? What did we do to make him not want to be here? Why are we not enough? In the end, with long, reassuring hugs and letting me open my Christmas present early, my mom helped me fall asleep. But the shame of not having a father around, and a family that felt so different, is like that lackstayed.
For the rest of elementary school, I dreaded hearing the question, "So, where's your dad?" of the playmates who came. It was even worse when he asked their parents because every time I mumbled, "My parents are divorced," I'd notice their eyes twinkle, and how quickly they would change the subject, which only fueled my newfound narrative that single-parent families are in short supply. In middle school and high school, friends with divorced parents became my safe havens. With them, I never needed to explain why I had not seen my father for four months; And their parents never asked questions. They just got it.
As early as a teenager, I concocted a plan: In a few years, when I turned 16, I'd get my driver's license—then I could drive at any time to visit Dad. We will build our relationship, and he will realize what he has lost! I could ask him questions, and he himself told me why he wasn't around as often. Maybe then, I'll finally feel peace looking at family photos that didn't include his face.
But, a month before my fifteenth birthday, my father passed away after a decade-long struggle with lupus. So we never had to talk. However, I started to find peace a year later while talking to my mom. What started as a Five minutes phone call It turned into a three hour conversation, where I asked all my questions and she answered freely. On this call I began the process of gently reframing our family history and my father's role in it.
Now, when I think of my dad, I don't think of a guy who walked out because he didn't care. I think of a man who was overwhelmed because he struggled with addiction and depression and kept resorting to coping mechanisms that were detrimental to his marriage and children. A man is tired of always failing, so he decides to throw in the towel and move on. When I think of all my dad did and didn't do, it still hurts. But I do not hold his absence against him.
These days, when I talk about it, I don't feel embarrassed. Just deep love and pain. Pain for his warm laugh and beautiful smile. A pain like we've never seen before — no father-daughter dance, no grandkids meeting, no Tuesday morning phone calls. I miss him so much. But I no longer feel ashamed, nor do I view it as a story of abandonment. I look now to people who ask, "What about your dad?" Because I'm going to tell a complex but documentable story. And I am grateful for that.
note He is a sad father And the 10 single moms chose them based on their experiences.
(Photo by Jeremy Pawlowski/Stocksy.)
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