The only memory I have of you is when I was younger. Around four-years-old, to be exact. I remember it was a Thursday because mamma was always out of work that day. I was in the years of Barbie dolls and hide-n-seek. My days were filled with made-up adventures and finding sunken pirate ships out back in the old lake mamma told me not to get in.
This day was special. It was my birthday, and to any four-year-old, this day is the most important of them all. You promised my mother you would stop by on my birthday. I had never heard of you or really thought about you. I remember asking my mom if I had a dad like Hannah from daycare had. You would tell me, “yes, but he is gone.” I never understood what she meant by this, but now that I’m older I see that she was protecting me from the sadness and betrayal you put us through. Either way, I was excited to meet the man I thought never existed. I was excited to meet the man that I tried so hard to imagine in my preschool mind.
I remember waiting on the old, gray front porch all day for you to pull into my driveway. I was playing with my two favorite Barbie’s. I think I named one Sarah and the other Charlotte (both named after my aunt and mother). For a four-year-old, all day is like a whole year in our minds, so finding things to do was very difficult. I mean, god forbid I be bored for two seconds, right? I remember my mother bringing me dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for lunch, and a home cooked meal for dinner and then water every hour. She looked disappointing every time she would come to check on me. I know now how bad she felt for me.
I didn’t know what kind of a car you drove because I never knew you, despite how much I wish I did. Every time a car would start down our street, I’d stand up in excitement, but then it would pass, so I sat back down waiting for the next one, never letting my hope go away. I didn’t care if you were a little late because all I care about was meeting my father. Everything else didn’t matter to me at the moment.
After it had become dark, mother came out and said that you weren’t coming. I remember crying so hard wondering why you decided not to come. I remember wanting to know who you were. I hated trying to piece together the images of who I imagined you to be. I was so heartbroken. I remember asking my mother, “who is my dad?” I’d get no answer. Just eyes of sorrow.
This is the only memory I have of you, and it has been an example of how I feel every time I have to think about you. Every single year in elementary school when they had the “bring your dad to school day.” Every single time I asked about you and got no answer in return. Every single time I wondered who you were. You broke my heart without even knowing my middle name, and to me, that is what hurt the most. Wanting to know absolutely everything about you, and you not even giving me a second thought. You hurt me even when your name was never spoken. The sight of my half-siblings having relationships with their father breaks me into two. I feel like half of me is missing. Like another part of me is a mystery that I’ve been trying so hard to find out about.
I want you to see that without you I became strong. I was raised by a strong woman you left in pieces. I watched her pick herself back up and put them back in their place. I watched her struggle, and I watched her grow into the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She taught me how to be strong when there was no one else around. Because of you, she had to take up not only the position of being a mother but also the position that you decided just wasn’t for you.
I want you to know that I love who I have become. I want you to know that despite all the trials you’ve put me though, I came out alive and I am thriving. I have accomplished great things and trust me, my story is long from being over. I have so many great opportunities going for me. I want you to know that I am who I am not because of you, but because of who I made myself to be. You had no part in this because you chose to have no part in this.
