My Father Ghosted Me

My daddy issues are endless, aren’t they?

The lore is quite simple: my mother and my bio father had me extremely young. She was an impressionable 16-year-old. I won’t even speak on him, but he’s a sore subject in our household—and understandably so. Because when she finally told me their story, as a woman, having any contact with him made me feel uncomfortable, I suppose.

And the fact that I may or may not have a sister somewhere in this city—4 months younger than me? That’s a whole other thing to unpack.

Anyway, we bumped into each other earlier this year, and he messaged me on Facebook. I never use that app, so I only saw the text last month, I think. We got to talking about stuff, and he asked to see pictures of my daughter. He had even wanted to meet up, but we missed each other. And honestly? I’m grateful, because I never know what to say around him. In person, that is. My silence is so loud I’d win Beyoncé’s mute challenge.

But then the man disappeared. I sent him a text, and he never replied. And now I’m sitting here feeling so strange. I had strange feelings about everything anyway, but now it’s like… Am I upset? Why am I upset?

Here’s the thing—when someone who has been absent your whole life pops up and then vanishes again, it’s disorienting. It’s not just the absence that stings; it’s the way they remind you they exist, only to remind you again that they can leave whenever they want. It’s this strange, lingering ache that doesn’t feel like anger, sadness, or even rejection—it feels like all three, overlapping and confusing.

When we talked, I felt this weird pull toward trying to connect, but also this wall of discomfort. Like, what do I even say to him? What can I say to someone who has such a complicated role in my life? He’s a stranger, but he’s also my father. His presence feels like a puzzle piece I’m not even sure I want to fit. And now that he’s gone again, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been left holding the box of pieces, unsure what to do with it.

Maybe that’s what gets me the most—this stupid flicker of hope that sparks up every time he comes back. I don’t even know why I have it. It’s not like I expect him to become Father of the Year. I don’t even know if I want a relationship. But him reaching out stirs something. And when he disappears again, it’s like I’m reminded that he has this power to come and go as he pleases, while I’m left dealing with the aftermath.

And it’s not just about him ghosting me. It’s about what that disappearance represents—every little gap he left in my life that I’ve tried to fill on my own. The absence is its own presence. It shapes things: the way I approach relationships, the way I navigate vulnerability, even the way I process emotions. His absence became a part of me, and when he shows up, it’s like he shakes the foundation of something I thought I’d built solid.

So now I’m sitting here asking myself why I even care. Why does it bother me that he didn’t reply to a text? I’ve lived this long without him, so why does his inconsistency still affect me? Maybe it’s not even about him—it’s about the pattern. The showing up just to leave again. It’s not the person I miss—it’s the idea of what he could’ve been. The father he never was, but maybe I secretly wish he could be, even if I’ll never admit it out loud.

And that’s the thing about fathers like him. It’s not black and white. It’s not just anger or forgiveness, hate or love. It’s layers. It’s grief for something you never had. It’s the resentment of having to carry that grief. It’s the confusion of feeling tied to someone you don’t even really know. It’s realizing that their presence, their absence, and everything in between have shaped you in ways you’re still trying to understand.

So yeah, I feel strange. I feel more than strange. I feel a lot of things I can’t even name. And maybe that’s the hardest part—not the absence itself, but everything it leaves behind.