The One I Called Dad

(Hello, Reader. I know that I’ve been sharing a lot of emotionally sensitive stories about my life. It can be a lot to get through. That being said, if you ever need to disengage, please do. This post, and others, will always be here when you're ready. All the love, N.) 

Something I’m glad more people are finally talking about is the importance of choosing the right person to have a child with. No matter where life takes you and your co-parent, that person will be who your child calls “Dad” for the rest of their life—if they’re lucky enough to even have one. As I’ve always believed, there’s a difference between being called Mom or Dad and being a true mother or father. Sadly, not all fathers and mothers are moms and dads.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my relationships with maternal figures, and in doing so— and totally unrelated—I found myself thinking about how much I miss my dad. Not my biological father, but the man who raised me, the one I’ve known my entire life and who is my siblings’ father. For much of my life, he was my dad in every way that mattered. I thought the world of him. But, as life would have it, our relationship soured beyond repair. Still, out of habit or maybe out of love, I’ll always think of him as my dad, even though I’ve had to accept that some bonds, no matter how strong they once were, don’t always last.

Growing up, I idolized him. In my eyes, he was the coolest person alive, and I dare say, I loved him more than my mom. She worked long, odd hours and was often too exhausted to be present, so my dad became the default parent. Because of him, I can confidently say I’ve known the love of a father. So much of who I am today is shaped by his presence in my life.

But discovering that he wasn’t my biological father as a child was confusing, to say the least. Also, I couldn’t understand why my adoptive father seemed to dislike me when this man, who wasn’t even my real father, loved me unconditionally (or so it seemed). It was a tough thing to process at such a young age, and honestly, it still stings a little when I think about it. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can laugh at the absurdity of a grown man beefing with a child. But back then? It hurt.

My adoptive father was angry and bitter, and though all of us—my siblings and I—felt the weight of his “colorful” personality, I bore the brunt of it. His treatment left a lasting mark on me, but it also gave me the wisdom to recognize what not to look for in a partner, especially one who would be the father of my own children. Ironically, as I grew older, even my dad—the man I loved so much—became an example of what to avoid.

Over time, his behavior changed. His new wife made him almost unrecognizable to us. I remember warning him once, telling him that if he continued down this path, treating us the way he was, he would end up like the angry man from my childhood—resented by his own children. His response? “You don’t know anything about having kids.” That arrogance, that inability to see what was unfolding, became his downfall. I’ve learned that adults often forget what it was like to be children themselves, and one by one, we left him.

I was the first to go. The dad I knew, the one who had loved me so deeply, was gone, replaced by someone who hurt me in ways I never expected. After his stepdaughter passed away, he told my mom’s cousins that his “firstborn” had died. Word got back to me, and for a moment, people thought I had passed away. It may seem petty, but for someone like me—someone with deep-rooted abandonment issues—it felt like a slap in the face. I had always felt like a revolving door, people coming and going as they pleased, and hearing that he had so easily replaced me with another woman’s child was painful beyond words.

In the end, my siblings followed suit. They, too, reached their breaking points with him. And before anyone assumes I influenced their decisions—I didn’t. I never even told them what he said about his “firstborn.” I didn’t confront him either. I simply withdrew. The fact that he didn’t notice my absence spoke volumes.

So yes, I have both mommy and daddy issues, but don’t we all? What matters is that I’m committed to breaking the cycle. No one said I have to expose my own child to the same mess I went through. Thankfully, both her parents are on the same page. We want to give her and any future siblings a childhood they don’t have to heal from. At least, not because of us… I’m not arrogant enough to believe that we won’t fuck up at times. I’m sure we will. But, she’ll never have to miss her dad the way I miss mine.