After reading Shane’s post about his daughter, it’s been in the back of my mind all morning about my dad and the circumstances that we found ourselves in when I was younger.
I have to say Shane, this isn’t a pleasant memory but in some ways I’m glad you made me bring it back to the surface.
My parents divorced when I was 3. I don’t remember them being together at all. My daddy remarried when I was about 5 or 6, as did my mom about the same time. My mom’s marriage didn’t last. My dad’s did.
I was a weekend or every other weekend visitor in my daddy’s home. I was his only child. The daughter he always wanted. In my daddy’s eyes I could do no wrong. He never raised his voice or his hand to me. He was a poor man but gave me everything that he could.
My stepmother lost a baby when I was about 8. This was her last chance at having a baby pretty much because of her age. After this event took place, my stepmother resented me. Not that she was physically abusive to me but I knew she didn’t like me anymore. It wouldn’t be so much of what she said, as it was the vibe I felt coming from her. She just didn’t like me. Bottom line.
I learned to deal with this. Stayed away from her for the most part. Tried to let it roll off my back. Never said anything to my daddy for fear that he would choose her over me. Irrational fears of a child or maybe not.
Well finally, when I hit about 12 or 13, I was done. I was tired of going over to my daddy’s house and getting evil looks and hated feeling like I didn’t belong there. I stopped going to see my daddy. I stopped calling. He didn’t call me either.
I grew up. Did things kids do and did things that kids aren’t supposed to do. All the time knowing my daddy was out there but not giving a big fat shit. On the outside anyway. I really don’t remember thinking much about him as a teen but then again, I was so wrapped up in my life and what drug I could do next that it’s a wonder I even had enough sense to get dressed in the morning. But that’s neither here nor there.
For 5 years, I had no contact with him whatsoever. Yes, I remember crying at times because I missed him. I remember being angry at him because I missed him. But this didn’t change the fact that I was bound and determined NOT to be the first to make a move. I figured if he loved me he would at least call. He knew where I lived. He knew the phone number. Stupid stubborn pride and fucked up thinking of a kid.
When I was 18 and about 4 months pregnant with my oldest daughter, I pulled up to a 7-11, parked, sat in the car for a minute counting money or something. When I looked up to get out of the car, my daddy was walking out of the store. The first thought that went through my head was “Holy shit, that's looks like my daddy! Is that really my daddy?" I didn’t even recognize him at first. It had been almost 6 years since I had seen him. He had glasses that he didn’t have the last time I saw him, he had a little bit of gray hair, he was hatless (which he never did when I was young). All of these changes I soaked up in about 3 seconds flat. He looked right at me and got in his car and drove away. I have no idea to this day if he even knew who I was at the time. One of the worst pains I’ve had emotionally was that day. To look right at your daddy and not recognize him or be recognized by him is hell. Not a feeling I’d wish on anyone.
Anyway…. I went home and told hubby (boyfriend at the time) what had happened. I cried and cried and was extremely angry: At my daddy and at myself. Probably more self-hatred in those moments because I could have made a choice right then and there. Well, I did make a choice; it was just the wrong one.
After that night of crying, I never mentioned it again until a few months later. I was about 7 months going into the 8th month of my pregnancy. I was talking to hubby and he pretty much talked me into calling my daddy.
So that’s what I did. I called. I told him that I thought he should know that he was going to be a grandpa. He asked me when and if I was married and all the other usual questions I guess daddies ask their little girls when they come home pregnant. Fuck, I honestly don’t know what he asked me that night on the phone. I was trying to concentrate on not crying so I could actually talk.
On December 23, 1988, the day my daughter was born, was the first time I had seen my dad in almost 6 years. He and my stepmother came to the hospital to see her. Yeah, evil stepmother bitch was the doting grandmother but hey, if she loves my child but not me, who I am to deny my child any form of love. I can let shit go. (We, evil stepmother and I, actually ended up getting along half was decently in the end)
After that day, my daddy and I talked on the phone EVERY day until the day he died, 10 years later. I went to see him when I could. Not as often as I would have liked but it couldn’t be helped.
It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always fun. We talked about what happened. Why we stopped speaking. It basically boiled down to two stupid ass stubborn people that didn’t want to give in first. Talk about complete ignorance and the apple not falling very far from the tree. Damn.
It really sucks that I lost all that time that could’ve been spent with my daddy and he lost it too but we were lucky enough to regain some of that time and make it ours.
That lesson, as horrible, painful and scarring as it was, taught me one thing.
It's never too late.
I’m as guilty as the next person for eating while driving but damn; at least I can keep it in my lane!! 
Needless to say I’m sure I looked like some crazed loon with all the mouth moving and gesturing I was doing. 
What certain gene is responsible for this? 
