I can recall moments from my childhood like fragmented snapshots, each one layered and out of sequence.
I see my father walking out of our home, his belongings stuffed into a trash bag over his shoulder. I remember my mother, eight months pregnant with my brother, lying on the couch, gazing out the window as the snow fell heavily, enveloping the world outside. I was just five years old, trudging through the knee-deep snow, convinced that when my mother opened the door, my father would be standing there, ready to wrap me in a warm blanket and make me a cup of hot cocoa.
After my brother was born, my father returned, offering me a doll in a baby seat as my “big sister gift.” I longed for him to stay with us, to never leave again. But soon, he vanished into the night once more, leaving my mother in the dark with my newborn brother while I slept at the foot of the bed, yearning to keep her safe.
Months later, we followed him across the country to California, chasing after the idea of a father, up and down the coast for years, but never really reclaiming him. Visits were sporadic; he had a new life, a new wife, and my brother and I never had him fully to ourselves again.
This all transpired nearly 35 years ago. Now, I am a mother of three daughters, happily married to a man who has stood by me for two decades. I’ve built the kind of life for my girls that I always wished for myself.
Yet, the pain — the fear, the anxiety — lingers. It resurfaces when one of my children falls ill, and my mind spirals to the worst-case scenario. It resurfaces when my husband is late from work, and I panic, fearing the unimaginable.
Despite having a fulfilling life, I struggle with trust. I know that happiness can vanish in an instant. Most days, I’m managing. I’ve engaged in therapy and confronted my past, processing the grief I’ve carried.
I still maintain contact with my father and my stepmother, who was occasionally verbally abusive, but the painful truth is he never comprehends the depth of the hurt he inflicted on my brother and me. Whenever I bring it up, he becomes defensive, so I’ve learned to keep my feelings at bay, making small talk and sharing pictures of his granddaughters without delving deeper.
This leaves me grappling with an emptiness in my heart, a void from losing him time and again throughout my life. I strive to ensure my children never endure this kind of loss. Breaking the cycle is my mission.
I am learning to accept who I am and who my father is, realizing that my only choice is to continue living my life despite the ever-present hurt. Still, a part of me remains that little girl trudging through the snow, hoping that her father will be waiting at the door. What can I tell her when she encounters that empty threshold? Do I have the strength to explain that she will be in search of his love for years, until ultimately giving up?
She is shattered, irrevocably changed, and that reality cannot be altered. While she may cover her wounds with a metaphorical Band-Aid and strive to move forward, the scars will always remain. However, she will do everything in her power to create a better life for her family and for that hopeful little girl she once was.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the lasting emotional impact of her father’s abandonment during childhood, expressing how the pain and fear linger despite her fulfilling adult life. She shares her journey towards healing and the commitment to ensure her own children do not experience similar loss.