The sperm donor who is listed on my birth certificate as “Father” didn’t stick around long enough to be my dad. None of the many men who paraded through my life as my mother’s various partners (legally sanctioned and not) ever cared enough to be my dad. On a positive note I’m not sure it really bothered me when I was younger. Mom never talked about my father – not the good or the bad. The only reason I know his name is because it’s there in black and white on my birth certificate. It wasn’t until I was an adult that it hurt to realize my own father cared so little. Cue the sweet and sappy Father’s Day ads Every. Fucking. Where.
Eventually I was able to get past those feelings. Hey, there were kids to raise; bosses to please; laundry and housekeeping to do. It’s kind of impossible to wallow when you have others depending on you. So I stopped the pity party and got focused.
When I met Hubs and his family adopted me and my girls I felt like I had come home. Dad – the first man to earn that title – treated me like just another of his kids. It was glorious!
I miss him.
Happy Father’s Day Dad.