The holiday season often brings a mix of joy and sorrow for me. While we all tend to poke fun at certain relatives we’d rather avoid during family gatherings—like that overly enthusiastic uncle after a few too many drinks or the cousin who just stares blankly—it’s the silence from estranged family members that truly stings.
Four years and two children later, you might think that not hearing from my father during Christmas would hurt a little less. One would assume I’d be used to the read receipts that go unanswered. Yet, as the holidays approach each year, that familiar knot in my throat tightens. It becomes harder to overlook the delightful family photos that flood social media—pictures of tiny babies napping on grandpa’s chest and smiles that span generations in matching pajamas.
My phone doesn’t ring with questions about the perfect gift for my specific six-year-old daughter, nor is there a festive card to display on my fridge. Instead, I’ve been fortunate to have a wonderful bonus dad who stepped in when my biological father stepped out, providing me with the consistency and love I desperately needed, even on days when I felt undeserving.
However, the hurt child within me resurfaces during this time of year, replaying the same painful questions: “Why don’t you love me?” and “Am I just not good enough?” These thoughts have shaped my negative self-image. The grief over the relationship I believe I should have had hits me hard, leaving me reeling. It’s baffling to think that someone could have four beautiful grandchildren and not know them at all.
At this point, I don’t hold out hope for change. I don’t expect a Christmas miracle where my father suddenly appears at my door, leading to a heartfelt reunion or meaningful conversations with my children. Yet, that doesn’t lessen the pain.
Life rarely resembles a Hallmark movie, and fate seldom delivers us our happy endings. Perhaps I should feel thankful; out of his four children, I was the only one he consistently saw during my childhood. There were moments of joy amid the chaos, even if my birthday parties often turned into adult gatherings that involved too much drinking. Sure, I developed a strange fear of drowning while stuck in a car due to our outings, which often stemmed from his conflicts with his wives, but at least he brought me along, right?
I forgave him long ago, but my anger has turned into sadness. Understanding that I can’t control the situation any more than I can control the weather helps somewhat, but it doesn’t heal the wound. What used to be an open and bleeding sore has now become a minor scrape—still painful if I bump it the wrong way.
This Christmas, I will cherish my children, thankful I can witness their joy as they open gifts. We’ll video chat with my mom and the only grandfather they’ve known. I can rest easy knowing I’ll never subject them to the turmoil I’ve experienced, even if I do tend to overcompensate. When they are older, I will share the truth, but for now, I will take the time I need to process my pain privately. After all, it’s not me who should feel sorry.
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Summary:
This heartfelt article explores the complex emotions surrounding estrangement from a parent during the holiday season. The author reflects on the pain of missing a father while appreciating the love from a bonus dad. Despite the hurt of not having a traditional family dynamic, the author focuses on cherishing the joy of their children and the lessons they will impart in the future.