There’s a saying that daughters often marry men like their fathers. Each time I hear this, I find myself grateful—grateful to fate or the universe, or whatever powers may be—for the fact that my biological father is not my real father.
As a somewhat overweight middle schooler, I remember the heat clinging to me as I removed my riding helmet after an exhausting lesson. After an hour in the sun, I was thirsty and approached my stepfather, who had been standing in the same heat, watching me. I asked him for a dollar to buy a drink from the vending machine, and he willingly complied. He placed me in the cab of my father’s truck, which was still cool from the air conditioning since he had arrived just before my lesson ended.
The moment we hit the road, my biological father turned to me, his tone icy. “You will never again ask that man for money when I am present. I am your father, and you will ask me for what you need. I will provide what you need,” he stated with an eerie calmness that belied the anger in his words.
Even at twelve, I recognized the hypocrisy in his statement. Just weeks prior, he had cut off all financial support for my extracurricular activities, providing only the bare minimum dictated by law. My mother, a school nurse, was not affluent, and horseback riding was costly. While I worked at the stables to help with expenses, my stepfather, who was an elementary school teacher, stepped in to assist.
Trapped in that vehicle with a man consumed by jealousy and rage, I knew he would never be my real father.
To the outside world, my biological father was charming and ambitious. To me, he was cold, intimidating, and distant. My mother made the right choice to leave him while pregnant with me—her best decision in parenting. Shortly after I was born, she began a relationship with a teacher at her school, who became a steady presence in my life.
My biological father gave me the nickname “Sports Fan,” an ironic label since sports never interested me. This name symbolized our relationship; he didn’t know me and showed little interest in doing so. He quizzed me on academic subjects, prohibited television, and took me camping in miserable conditions that left me feeling isolated and uncomfortable. He even taught me to shoot a gun, which terrified me.
In contrast, my stepfather affectionately called me “Bunsarunski,” a playful nickname that seemed to capture my essence. He allowed me to win at games, engaged in playful wrestling, amazed me with magic tricks, and patiently taught me to ride a bike.
My biological father eventually remarried, and his wife was a wonderful, intelligent woman who became part of my life. However, after their divorce, she vanished without a chance for farewell. Other relationships followed, with women coming and going, leaving me confused and hurt.
My stepfather, on the other hand, was a constant. As an only child, I longed for family, and his large, loving clan provided the stability and joy I craved.
My biological father set expectations for me that felt unattainable and unwanted. On my thirteenth birthday, instead of a celebration, he took me to a secluded spot and lectured me about my weight, echoing the cruel taunts from school. That day, I decided enough was enough. I distanced myself from him, choosing to cut him out of my life entirely.
A real father is there for his child in moments of chaos and joy. He’s the one who chases after a toddler who has ingested something dangerous, comforts her after a biking mishap, and nurtures her abandoned pets. He attends every school performance, teaches her complex skills, and stands by her side during life’s challenges. He walks her down the aisle and celebrates milestones, becoming a loving grandfather to her children.
My stepfather embodies the essence of a true father.
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In summary, the concept of fatherhood transcends biological ties. A true father is defined by love, support, and commitment, qualities that my stepfather has consistently demonstrated throughout my life.