For most Americans, Father’s Day is a time to show their appreciation to the man who helped raise them, guide them in life, and is a role model for healthy masculinity. However, for me, as a child, I saw Father’s Day as a day to ignore, because my father ignored me.
My father had another family, dare I say another life, and my existence in his life was forgotten unless it became convenient for him. The man who was supposed to be the most important and impactful man in my life treated his extramarital children as the least important.
As a child, it’s hard to understand why all the other boys around you have their fathers to support them, bring them to their games, and cheer them on in their athletic success, but yours never shows up or cares.
It’s a complicated question that you pretend to not know the answer to, because it’s an unfathomable conclusion to accept, but there’s no other explanation for it: Your father sees you as parentally disposable. The emotional pain from accepting this inevitable conclusion only gets compounded when you find out in your teens that the man who gave you life advocated for your death by means of abortion.
This conclusion made sense as to why my father wasn’t there to help or console us when we became homeless twice, bouncing around between a shelter and hotel rooms. It’s why talking to my father on the phone always sounded like it was a forced and regrettable action on his part; my mother was the one who would force the conversation to occur.
The last time I saw my father alive was when I was 16 years old, and the last time I spoke with him was when I was 21 years old. Both encounters were only memorable because of his disinterest in having a relationship with me.
After our last conversation, I told myself I wouldn’t try anymore to be involved in his life, but I wouldn’t reject any attempts from him if he chose to be involved in mine: Those calls never came.
Despite this decision, my mother tried one more time for me to engage with him by wishing him a “Happy Father’s Day,” at which she received an earful about why I shouldn’t celebrate a man who has never cared about me or acted like a father to be celebrated.
From that day forward, Father’s Day was no longer about my relationship with my father but, instead, about the relationship I have with my son. Today, Father’s Day means so much more to me because I’ve become the father I always wanted.
While my father treated me like the single greatest mistake in his life, my son being born became the greatest event in my life, and having the honor of being his father was the greatest privilege I could ever experience.
I remember standing in the hospital room, holding my son for the first time and being overwhelmed with emotions about what my life would look like moving forward. I had no idea how to be a father because I didn’t have one to mimic throughout my childhood, but I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be my father.
As my son is about to pass the age threshold into adulthood later this year, I understand what children want the most from their parents: They want consistent effort.
I believe that sometimes parents get caught up in providing their children with as many material items as possible and feel pressured to take them to extravagant places, but at the heart of every child, they just want parents who are trying their best and care about their well-being.
My son was never curious about whether his father loved him, because we say it to each other every time we talk to each other, and I show it with my effort to be involved in his life. He understands that his father isn’t perfect and might fall short in some ways, but despite my flaws, to him, I’m still the greatest father in the world.
For this Father’s Day, I may not have a father to celebrate, but I can celebrate the fact that I’ve given my son the gift that I didn’t have: a father he’s proud of and respects.
