Almost a year ago I wrote about my biological father, the one I’ve never met and only talked to on the phone twice as a child.
I wrote him a letter three years ago and a year later he responded with a Christmas card and two pictures of himself as young adult. Finally learning what he looked like, after over twenty years of wondering, seemed like enough for me at the time. It closed the door on that chapter of my life of wishing for a father, or so I thought.
Since the moment I had internet access I’ve googled him every now and then out of curiosity, found out where he lived, his age and what he did for a living, and that he was married.
Five days ago I found out that he had died.
Reading his obituary I found out more about him than I knew while he was alive. At the time, his death didn’t really bother me. He was 70 years old, it seemed like he had a full life. His obituary talked about how active he was in his church and how many friends he had. I brushed it off and went about my day, telling myself that it shouldn’t bother me.
After a few hours, it started to hit me and I started to grieve.
More for the deeply buried dreams. I think that I always secretly hoped that one day we would meet and he’d express regret and all of the proper emotions of having missed out on my childhood and then we’d live happily ever after and I’d actually have a dad.
It’s not going to happen now and part of me is sad for that. I wish I had memories of a happy childhood to fall back on, I wish I could say that I’d never lacked for a father figure that I felt loved anyway… but I didn’t. Now that part of my life is closed for good. No more wishing.
It makes me really sad.
I wish you would have loved me, or cared enough to try
I wish you would have said hello before you say goodbye
To those of us who didn’t have a father, or who had a less than stellar relationship with them: you were always good enough.
It took me a long time to separate my worth from my father not wanting to be in my life. I hope you can do that too.