Born the third son of parents who desperately wanted a girl, I was immediately rejected by my father. From my birth to his death when I was fifteen, he only spoke to me twice neither of which was a father/son talk. My mother abetted this by making excuses and accusing me of always attempting to gain attention. Was I? Yes, I would do most anything from try to sit by him to steal things just to get his attention. I prayed he would yell, scream even hit me just to let me know he cared but he didn’t. He went to his grave a stranger to me.
When my father died, my mother turned to my older brothers for aid and comfort. Then, when I was sixteen, my niece was born, bringing an end for me in the family. I became an outcast displaced and alone, a member of the family in title only. Sans positive role model I began a search for one but having no idea what that was, I failed.
I married in my mid-twenties, had two sons and thought I knew what a real father should be. A father, a dad for real and that was surely something I could be proud of. But lessons I should have learned as a young lad weren’t taught and there too I failed. In my thirties, I fell into a period of self-doubt which manifested in excessive drinking and episodes of erratic thinking that lasted for a number of years.
Thankfully, in my early fifties with the help of a good therapist I was able to become the good man I know I am now. But, on occasion I remember and ask the night sky, why dad?