I will never be “Daddy’s Little Girl” and each time I realize this, I feel as though I want to cry. So, I do. As of late, it has not been that often, but every once in a while, I have a moment to myself. No cell phone, no Internet, no television, no distractions, and that is when it hits me. I break down. At those times, I am naïve. I truly believe that I am the only person in the world who hurts due to the absence of a father (that is our little secret, so let’s just keep that between me and you). It is not until I am outside of those moments that I realize the truth: I am not alone.
Many children, especially where I am from, grow up without a father. Sometimes it is by force; other times it is by choice. My situation mirrors the latter. He chose not to be there. His choice remains not to be here. Honestly, if he chose the opposite, I would not oblige. At this point, it is not his choice to make. He had his turn.
Growing up, I must admit I did not feel normal. Each one of my three closet friends had both parents involved in their lives on a consistent basis, which is where the similarities end. Number one, I was and still am the only child I know. It makes it that much harder not to have a sibling to confide in, to go to in my time of need. Number two, I have never had both of my parents in my life on a consistent basis.
My mother was always there; she did not get a get-out-of-jail-free card. Even if she did, I highly doubt that she would have ever used it. My father used his and I resent him for that. Now that I am older, I have matured. Thus, I give credit when credit is due. With that said, it was not all bad. Our time together was our time together and our time apart was just that--time apart. It was never enough in my eyes. I needed a full-time daddy, and I secretly envied everyone who had that 24/7 around the clock unconditional love from a father. I still do envy all daddy’s girls.
I knew the image of a perfect family, where there is a mother, father and a child all under one roof. That is not what I yearned for at all. What I wanted was reasonable. I wanted the small things. I wanted to run into my daddy’s arms and have him pick me up. As I got older, I wanted him there to torture the boys I dated. I wanted to hear, “Have my girl home by 10 p.m. or else.” I wanted to be his princess.
Fast forward 15 years, I sit here typing this with tear-filled eyes. Memories cloud my head. The bittersweet ones—my four graduations, which he missed—and the bad ones, which are only bad, because I was missing a piece of me.
Somehow, I managed. I am able to consider myself a writer, among other things. All of which could not have been done without my mother who played both roles. Even though I am grateful for her efforts, being a father was not meant to be her job. She put in overtime, punching the clock each day, but no matter how hard she worked at his job, she could never be my father. It is just not the same.
As my fingers stroke the keyboard, I think about those individuals who may not know exactly what it is I am going through, but feel some of my pain, because their fathers chose not to be involved. Then, the unselfish part of me thinks about those who have neither parent. It is a devastating thought, but I want to say that you can get through. I know it is cliché, but what does not kill you, truly does make you stronger.
So, from daughter to father: I want to thank you for making me stronger.
*Photography by GMO Photo Editor Billy Montgomery
