My dad died on Thanksgiving Day from a hunting accident when I was six years old. I don’t remember anything about it other than I sat in front of the TV with my grandma so I could hear our names on the news.
I believe that I wore a black velvet dress with an elastic black belt to the funeral, but I’m not certain. Some part of my brain remembers sitting in front of the casket at the cemetery in that dress, but I don’t remember the funeral. I do, however, remember that black dress.
It was my struggling 20s that caused me to really miss having a dad. I can’t remember what was spinning out of control at that point in my life, but I know that I wanted to talk to my dad and find some peace. It was dark, and I couldn’t find where the grave was. I drove around in circles for a long time, searching. The guilt was crippling.
I became a mother in my 30s. Neither relationship worked out. It wasn’t their fault or my fault, really. They both had some issues that I couldn’t or wouldn’t accept after a point, and I won’t get into it other than to say that it took a looong time for me to forgive them and the Universe. Neither was capable of being a father at that time, leaving me with two young ones to raise alone. I’ve done this for 12 of 14 years alone, 365 days a year, 24 hours a day.
The irony of raising my kids alone isn’t lost on me. Both of them were conceived in love, but love doesn’t fix things, really, despite what Hollywood wants you to believe. Mental illness, war-related traumatic brain injuries, and PTSD aren’t exactly easy to manage. What bothers me is that they punished my kids by abandonment. They simply walked out. Cleared themselves of any and all responsibility. Ghosted.
One lived uptown in an apartment and never called or reached out to visit unless I made it an issue. He eventually left for his home 14 hours away, and I received $100 a couple of times (when he had a new girlfriend). The other one had my kid added to his disability benefits but was kicked off those benefits years ago so that $160 a month was gone, too.
I listen to my single mama friends talk about the stress and problems with co-parenting, though most are, like me, the only parent. I know this has been hard on me and my family, but I am most often thankful for not having to ask a dad’s permission or argue about visitation. We are probably all a lot happier alone than we would have been the other way. I think. Maybe.
The fact that my dad died probably made it much easier on me and my brother than knowing he was alive and simply didn’t take the time to be involved in our lives. My dad was gone for good and not by choice; I never had to see him walking down the street. I think my kids have suffered more than I, to be honest.
The hardest part was finding out from my kids that they have the same embarrassment and feelings about people finding out that they don’t have a dad. I know that my youngest has always been upset about not having a dad. She would talk about her friends and what their dads were doing and her heart was so sad. Nothing I said or did made that easier for her. In November of last year she asked if she could visit and get to know him. Her sister and I split driving time while she slept in the backseat. It was a whirlwind trip, but it kindled something. He has traveled here with his wife just about every month since December.
It hasn’t been a smooth transition. She seems to take a day or two to feel comfortable around him and then he leaves again for home, but we’re learning as we go. The opportunity came for her to travel home with him and she’s been there for a week. I miss her like crazy. I hope he enjoys the Father’s Day gift from me because this is the biggest gift I’ve ever given in honor of the holiday.
If you are a father who is actually fathering, I applaud you. If you are a single mom who’s doing this stuff alone, I applaud you, too, because I know this holiday has a tendency to leave a bad taste in our mouths. And if you’re a man who has fathered kids and doesn’t financially support or acknowledge them? Well, I wish you the kind of day you deserve.
Onward,
Amy Jo
