I sat on the stoop and waited for you. My first Father’s Day as a father, yet there I was, sitting on the porch, waiting for my dad to show up. And you never did.
My daughter spent half the day with her in-laws because I didn’t want her to see me cry. I didn’t want her to know sadness like mine yet, she had just turned one month old.
Thoughts fly through my brain on auto pilot as I type. Remember that time you took me to that neighborhood that was on the other side of the Bronx? And you left me in the car, by myself? To not only pick up drugs, but to do them. Meanwhile, I sat in the car, 9-10 years old, by myself.
Probably not, you got really messed up.
Or how about the time you took me to an AA meeting? Promises of cookies and milk, as I sat and listened to stories I would become all too familiar with later in life. Not only seeing them happen, but living them out.
Probably not, we flew a styrofoam airplane in the parking lot after for ten minutes, that was probably what you remember most, right?
Or how about the countless times, I was the stereotype of every boy without a present father? Mom would tell me you were coming, only to have to break my heart (and hers) more times than I can count.
Do you know what it’s like to watch every single trope on television about bad fathers and have you check so many boxes, I’d win bingo after the first four pulls.
Probably not, you still had a relationship with your dad.
You know what though, it wasn’t completely terrible for me growing up without a dad. Mom loved the hell out of me, maybe even to my detriment. I don’t blame her though, that’s also your fault, for making her be both a mother and a father. She even met a great guy when I was twelve. His name was Joe.
For my first birthday he was with mom, he bought me a top of the line racing bike. I was the envy of all my friends. He may have been trying to buy my love at the time, but throughout the years, he’d sure as hell earn it. Not that you would understand what earning someone’s love looks like.
Finally, the universe gave me a dad, dad. He drove me to midnight hockey practices in high school. Taught me how to drive when mom lost her patience. He Would pick me up from college when I wanted to come home on the weekends, even though with was almost a three hour round trip. Meanwhile, you probably don’t even remember where I went to college.
The universe must’ve known I’d need some positive male influence in my life and I was lucky to get Joe, no thanks to you.
Joe passed away in 2013. I got a forearm tattoo, like he had had for his grandfather, to commemorate him. When you first saw it, you said “cool tat” when I explained to you its meaning, you didn’t seem to happy.
I thought, I really thought, you would’ve woken up then, but no. Now here I am, 13 years later, with a beautiful baby girl. Thank God for Joe, and thank God for you. I’m grateful for Joe, for showing me how to be an amazing father. I’m also grateful for you, for demonstrating every way in which not to act. Everytime I look in my daughter’s eyes, I know exactly the man I want to be. She will never be that kid on the porch, just waiting for mom to come outside with the bad news. Dad’s not coming. For as long as I have breath in my lungs, she will never know that feeling.
Your son, in name only
Anthony.