As I reflect on my childhood, the memories of my father are few and far between, often blurred like old photographs. They come to me like fragments of a long-forgotten film — I can’t quite distinguish between what’s real and what’s imagined. I recall a kitchen chair that was always empty during meals, his briefcase left by the door, and the familiar scent of Old Spice as he would kiss the top of my head before leaving. The rhythmic sound of his polished shoes on the hardwood floors and the creak of the front door echoed in the moments he departed for yet another extended business trip.
The more precious memories, however, are those rare moments of his presence. I can picture my dad lifting me onto his shoulders, laughing in the sunlight, and pushing me on the tire swing in our backyard. Those fleeting moments filled my heart with joy, a joy any little girl should experience.
Yet, one memory stands out with painful clarity: I remember waving goodbye to our white house from the back of an old station wagon, my father standing on the porch, waving until we turned the corner, leaving behind everything familiar. I was a child with an absent father.
Living in a small town, this absence meant calling an uncle to the father-daughter dance or asking a coach to escort me during homecoming. It meant tossing aside school flyers asking for dad volunteers, knowing they would only bring guilt to my mother. Each of these moments served as a reminder of the void in my life.
In fourth grade, my teacher asked us to color a picture of our family. I drew my mom, my brother, my sister, and our cat, but when it came to my dad, I just scribbled a shape and turned it in. “You forgot to color your Daddy’s face!” my teacher said, and I had to explain that I couldn’t remember what he looked like. That incident led to my first visit with a school counselor, where I began the long journey of untangling the emotions tied to an absent parent.
Years later, I met a wonderful man named Ethan, who quickly became my rock. We were young, naive, and broke, yet we decided to marry. On our first anniversary, amid the chaos of student life, I broke down over overdue bills and the reality of our situation. But Ethan surprised me with Krispy Kreme donuts and candles, singing a silly anniversary song. We laughed and made wishes while sitting on the floor. In that moment, I realized how lucky I was to have someone who faced challenges with me.
Eventually, we welcomed two beautiful children into our lives. This morning, as breakfast chaos unfolded around me, I watched Ethan fully engage in fatherhood, jumping into the fray of parenting with enthusiasm. We are a well-oiled team, tackling daily tasks together — whether it’s toasting waffles or packing lunches.
As I unpacked my son’s backpack, I came across a wrinkled piece of construction paper with the words “My Family” scrawled across the top. My heart raced as I smoothed it out. There it was: my son, his sister, me, our dogs, and Ethan holding a fishing pole and grinning. In those crayon lines, I saw the father my children have — a father who is present, who has a face, who smiles.
My children have the father I never had, and for that, I am immensely grateful.
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In summary, while my childhood was marked by absence, my present is filled with gratitude for the loving father my children now have.