Dad – At Last
The Dad I Never Had
The last time I saw my biological dad I was 4 months old. I only know about it because it was one of the accepted SCRIPTs that Mom would perform.
She was living in Texas when she met him at work. My brother was 3 when she got pregnant with me out of wedlock. Mom said that he would just take off on them, taking the only car they had for days at a time without giving her any information. He would leave her with no money and no food in the house, just her and my brother.
The second part of the SCRIPT was how she wouldn’t say any more because it just isn’t right to bad-mouth a kid’s other parent, and she was above that.
Then she would talk about the one time she took me to try to see him when I was 2. She drove 16 hours to the gas station where he had agreed to meet him. She had taken me to his house one time before that, but his wife threw herself at him the entire time, and she couldn’t subject her child to that again. I was getting too old to allow me to see that.
She waited there for 9 hours and he never showed. She couldn’t wait any longer, and she made the drive back. That was the last attempt. It’s also all I was ever told, not why she got with him in the first place or any time they spent together.
It sounded like they were living together and sharing resources. That doesn’t just happen by accident.
It doesn’t matter.
She disgraced the family by having a bastard.
Grandma was definitely ashamed that it had happened. She told me how lucky I was that nobody took it out on me. All three sisters were divorced, and Grandma made sure we all knew how unacceptable it was.
I learned very early not to ask further questions. I knew what I needed to know.
He was trash. She was blameless. I was the reason she had to move back home and I cost her the freedom she’d found in Texas. At least the other three grandkids were born during wedlock. At least they were gracious enough to take Mom and us back in.
I can remember summers when my brother would go to his dad’s. Mom would be a total wreck about him going and having to be without her baby boy and how much he needed her. My brother was eager to go be with his dad. He had stories about his dad. He remembered his dad.
His dad was cool. His dad really loved him, and so did his dad’s mom and this whole big family that didn’t have me in it and that I didn’t have any right to.
He wouldn’t have to put up with me for 6 whole weeks, and I better not go in his room and I better not touch his stuff.
I did not go in his room. I did not touch his stuff.
So when mom met Dad, I got to have a dad too. This was my shot.
Dad was a quiet man, and I chattered a lot, so it’s understandable that I got on his nerves. Mom also said that there was one time when they were dating that he tried to tell me not to do something, and I did it anyhow, and me not listening to him is part of why he died.
I didn’t know how to be a daughter to a dad. I tried, but I wasn’t good at it. I don’t have any memories of not listening to him on purpose. It turns out that I’m autistic, and I have ADHD, so I’m not doubting that it’s true. I wish I had been aware of it. I wish I had said I was sorry. I wish I had listened. I wish a lot of things.
So it makes sense why he was hesitant to deal with me. That doesn’t mean he never did, it just means that it was easier to connect with my brother. My brother was also older, and very into guns. They spent a lot of time together with Dad teaching him gunsmithing, hunting, so much more.
Dad grew up in Canada. His parents were Ukrainian Canadians, and there was a bit of a cultural divide between them and us. I wouldn’t find out until years later that when dad was a teenager they locked him in the basement because they were ashamed of him. When they committed him to a mental hospital they lied and told him he was there for his allergies. They didn’t tell Mom any of this before they got married.
So he moved here from Canada to go to gunsmithing school and that’s what he was doing with his life when he met my mom. He was exceptional at what he did and graduated at the top of his class. He had several job offers from across the country to consider, and Indiana won.
Dad worked longer hours than mom.
She would get off at 5, come home and start dinner, and he would clock out an hour behind her. He went in much earlier too.
When he wasn’t working at The Shop, he was working in the garage. I remember when he got bluing tanks and he was very excited. I never saw him use them. There were a lot of things in the garage I wasn’t allowed to touch. Mom found an intercom at a garage sale so we could reach him in the garage. I thought that was pretty cool. The talking button died pretty quick, but we could still “ring” the other unit.
I remember a lot of time that just didn’t have Dad in it, a lot of time wishing he were there.
Weekends were a different pace, especially Sunday. On Saturday there was a 50/50 chance that Dad would still go in to The Shop unless there was a gun show to go to. Sundays he couldn’t leave. Neither could Mom, and she was mad as hell about it. The church parking would block us in from 7 in the morning until well into the afternoon, and mom definitely let us know how unacceptable it was. She didn’t do anything about it because our landlord was some big wig at the church.
She did teach us to make the most of it. She loved to sleep in so when she would get up around 11, she would make us chocolate gravy and biscuits. We made sure we got the rolls of biscuits at Kroger every week. We’d put a cassette or record on and jam out and sing along. (Sometimes, Mom would dance with me. I miss that so much).
That first year it seemed like Dad was only accessible on Sundays. When their lease was up they bought a house and all of Mom’s dreams and hard work were falling into place.
Dad still worked a lot, but he had also knocked up my mom, and there were foods he loved that didn’t agree with her delicate sensibilities.
I can honestly say that I’ve never once in my entire life purchased or eaten pickled herring since the time I spent eating it with my dad. I would get so excited when he would get some because it meant that as mad as Mom was about it, we would spend hours in his shop with herring-breath.
It was mostly quiet time. I learned to light the kerosene heater. I learned how to use reloading equipment (even recalibrating regularly by myself thank you very much). I really loved reloading because of the Rube-Goldbergness of the whole affair. It’s like a mini-factory. We didn’t have “How it’s Made,” back then. This was as close as we got.
Dad either got used to my chattiness or I calmed down, although I have it on high authority that the trait persisted in me for quite some time. He eventually explained what the pieces did, and other tidbits.
He never talked about his childhood.
It always hurt that my brother got so much more of my dad. He got two dads, and I got some leftover time that I had to brush my teeth THREE TIMES for when I would come back in the house. And take a shower and change my clothes. (Dad suffered the same wrath).
My brother got invited to hang out at The Shop with the other men who worked there. They were all very impressed with him. Mom was very proud. He was a prodigy with this kind of stuff. I was entertaining myself writing on paper with bricks of lead waiting to be melted down into bullets. I was bored a lot. I knew better than to say that I was bored.
My brother got to go hunting with Dad. It was a very big deal. My brother got his first deer. They were gone for 5 days, and it was the only thing other than being sick that Mom would let my brother take off from school for. I still had to go to school.
I had an entirely different mom that weekend. We went to the store and got all kinds of fun food that she wouldn’t normally cook and we had nachos, and we watched some of her favorite movies that I’d never seen. We listened to music and danced. We wore bandanas in our hair, and we laughed.
One time, in the second house, Dad was mowing the yard on our second-hand riding lawn mower that mom fixed up. He came running in the house very concerned. Both arms were folded across his chest, and they contained a nest of bunnies he had accidentally run over.
One died. A few were missing ears. He cried. He was devastated and he asked Mom if we could keep the rest.
We didn’t keep them, but we did put them in the strawberry patch, and I checked on them every single day.
Dad was the best at playing Nintendo Baseball. We never did figure out how he did half of what he did on that game, and we tried. He thought it was hilarious.
He loved showing Mom off when fancy buyers for the guns had to be entertained. Mom was quite the shot, and the more sexist they were out loud, the more he delighted when she left them speechless.
He loved showing off my brother’s skills as well. Sometimes they would let me fire a couple rounds of a smaller gun at the end. Usually, this was not the case.
Dad was gentle. He wasn’t quick to anger, but frequently looked like he didn’t approve of me. Every once in a while I would get to cuddle with him on the couch, nestled in the triangle behind his knees with my head on his thigh. It felt so safe there.
He delighted when my younger sister was born. He didn’t the he would end up having babies. He had been told he was infertile. So, she was his miracle. He loved her so much. It was magic watching him love her. It was magic watching how he looked at Mom knowing she was on the way. It was magic watching her come to life preparing for my sister.
I always wanted more of him, and didn’t feel like I had any right to it. When I did get to connect, there was always some criticism, some jab, some failing of mine that would seem to wipe it away.
I hoped we had more time.
Mom took my siblings and I to K-Mart because the picture studio was there, and that was a pretty big deal. She agonized over what we would wear. Nothing I put on made her happy. I was fat. None of it was going to look good in the picture.
My dad wasn’t downstairs when we left. I didn’t say goodbye to him. I didn’t tell him I loved him. I don’t know if he would have believed I really meant it if I had.
I know that initially the plan had been for us all to go, but Dad stayed home. On the drive into town, she talked to us about how he was “getting bad again.” He had had several “episodes,” before and I knew she had him committed at least once while my brother and I were sent to visit my grandparents for the summer.
She said he was going back to the doctor the following day, and that they were on top of getting him help this time.
She said not to worry. She seemed worried.
We stopped for jamocha shakes on the way home, because they were Mom’s favorite. We had the whole back end full of groceries.
When we got home, Mom took the baby, and my brother and I started unloading the car, and taking the groceries down the long storage hallway that led to the back of the house from the front door. On the other side of that wall were the kitchen and laundry room.
We were almost done making trips in, and mom started a frantic, panicked screaming. It was so disorienting. She handed the baby to my brother and screamed at us to run next door as she lunged for the phone on the wall with the extra-extra-long tangled cord.
I froze and looked back where she had come from and saw my dad’s legs stretched out across the floor of the laundry room. He was completely still. I was so confused, and it was hard to understand my mom.
Then I saw the blood, pooled on the floor where Dad was laying. She kept screaming. I ran.
I didn’t normally run. I’ve never ran a whole mile in my life, but that night I ran.
I had just kicked off my shoes, so I was barefoot traversing our rural lawn and the neighbor’s rock drive. The pain in my feet made more sense than anything else.
By the time I got there the house was in chaos. We were very close with our neighbors. They were really like an extension of our home. Everyone was asking questions and I didn’t know anything.
My brother seemed to be able to tell them enough.
Time stopped. We read passages from the bible as though getting the right combination of nonsensical words could somehow make it ok that it was all ending. They seemed comforted. I performed comfort for them, and they seemed satisfied with it.
I fell into a hollow deep place, like I was watching my life on a screen. Nothing made sense for a long time after that.
Daddy- by Protyus A. Gendher
Some people only grace our lives for a moment
Present for a second, then off they go again
I was 8 years old when I met my dad
My family finally looking like the ones other kids had
I thought when he married Mom, we’d keep him forever
Not knowing our lives can change like the weather
Not knowing each moment should be treated as a gift
Not knowing anything could cause such a rift
Everyone had opinions about what family means
All rooted in ideas of eternity
Confusing what he was to me
So, I was a bastard until I was 8
But then there was a change of fate
But everything that comes can also go
And it only lasted a year or so
A few short years when Mom was happy
Before her mood turned forever crappy
A few short years when we loved and laughed
And shared our meals, and cuddled in laps
A few short years when we played games
When we spent time before the end came
A few short years, of acceptance and belonging
Before the end happened so wrongly
A few short years, when I dreamed of a future
Where he would be there to watch me mature
It never occurred to me that we wouldn't have time
That possibility would reach the end of the line
When he died, I was only ten
I didn’t really have the time to get to know him by then
There were so many things that I didn’t ask
So little time to fulfill our tasks
The severed line of our dreams and hopes
Drifted away like an anchored rope
Out of reach with no warning
Waking to a shocking mourning
There were so many things I did not understand
About this father, husband, and man
There were so many censored facts
That kept my mind and memory off track
So now I sit here seeking truth
About the tragedy of my youth
I know that I loved you, I know I wanted more
I know that I wish I’d been better about doing chores
I wish I’d loved your harder, I wish I’d held more dear
The scarce few memories that still bring me to tears
I wish that I had shown you, how very much you meant
To this ten-year-old broken heart, that I’m still trying to mend
I know that it wasn’t your fault
Even though you took your life
After all these years I also know
That the fault wasn’t mine
I have so many regrets, and I took so much for granted
If I had only known, I would have been far more candid
I wonder if you would be proud
Or disgusted in me more like Mom
Would you have been able to see my light
Or maybe hear my song?
Would you have known your grandkids?
Or come to my college graduation?
Would we have spent time healing
In mutual meditation?
I can’t know if you’d approve
Of the person that I’ve become
I don’t know how you’d feel about
All of the things that I’ve done
I hope you knew that I loved you
And that I’d never stop
I hope you knew how proud I was
I got to call you “Pop”
I hope you knew you changed me
For better or for worse
I bet that you had no idea
How much losing you would hurt
I hope you found the peace
Your tortured soul was needing
But from that day forward
My heart continued bleeding
Survivor Literacy 
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