My Father's Son

I am my father’s son.

As an only child, it was hard growing up deciding who I wanted to be- am I going to be my own person? Or am I doomed to end up like my parents, because I have no one to bounce off of?

I never had any friends. Other family members never came to visit. My parents hardly ever encouraged me. So I learned not to care about anything because why care if there’s no one to care with you?

I did okay in school. My teachers were the only ones to ever give me any kind of reward. They gave me some courage to grow and become my own person, but I don’t think I’ll ever have that true sense of self identity. It’s just not in the cards for me.

I got my first job at sixteen working as a mailroom assistant for this tech company. It was decent pay for a high schooler, so I stuck with it.

My parents started to teach me how to drive, but only so I could be their personal chauffeur while living at home. They called this my “rent” because, for some strange reason, they thought I was old enough to support myself, but were claiming they were “letting” me stay with them. And for what? To be their taxi driver?

Because I never had anything to spend my money on, I moved out as soon as I turned eighteen since I could afford it. My parents were out of town for a wedding and had no idea. They missed my whole birthday.

As soon as they told me about two months prior that they would be gone that weekend that suddenly turned into a whole week-long vacation- I still don’t know if they knew it was my birthday AND high school graduation or not- I started apartment surfing, looking for cheap studios in the area. I bought myself a bike since I had no car, and planned to use it to get around until I could get a real vehicle.

I left them nothing but a note on the kitchen table, and left my house key behind, too, since I would not be returning to a place like this. Two days after my birthday, I was all moved in with my exceptionally few belongings.

My new home, my new start.

As great as it felt to be on my own, I was still missing this massive piece of my life.

The tech-startup hired me full-time as soon as I graduated. I was in charge of mail-room operations, and they sponsored me to take basic tech classes at the nearby community college so I could learn and move up in the company. By twenty-one, I had an associates degree and a firm stance in the workplace.

Life was lonely, but I was making it by the only way I knew how.

When I was twenty-six, just like my father had been, I got a girl pregnant. Unlike how my parents ended up staying together, this woman decided she didn’t want to be a mother, and signed away her rights to the kid, leaving her alone with me, me alone with her.

They say when your first child is born, this instinct kicks in.

That didn’t happen for me.

I stared at her in the hospital, day in and day out, visiting her after work until they decided she was ready to go out into the world to be raised by a now-single father.

My boss understood my situation and gave me paternity leave so I could bond with the kid and, I don’t know, adjust to being a single dad.

Coworkers banded together and sent me baskets and toys and blankets to help me out, and although it did help, I still felt nothing.

I felt like nothing.

As if I wasn’t feeling bad about my life before, this just made me feel more empty, more angry.

No one in the family offered to help me out, so I had to fork out a little more of my paycheck so I could use the workplace’s daycare center as soon as she was old enough- all kids had to be six months and above.

I used my three months of paid leave to be with her, and spent the other three months working from home. When she started coming with me to work, I felt like things were getting a little better, and I was getting the hang of things.

Alas, as she grew up, I grew distant. She’s my kid, I loved her, but I couldn’t give her the emotional support she needed.

For her fifth birthday, I got her some new toys and presents, but she asked why we never had anyone over to have fun with her.

When she made friends in elementary school, I hosted some playdates at my house, but stayed away from the kids unless they needed something.

As she went to birthday parties and gatherings with her friends and on school trips with other parents, she began to ask why we never had parties or gatherings, or why I never went on the school trips.

All I could tell her was the excuse that I was too busy working or just too tired. Kids believe that stuff, but not for long.

The older she got, especially around middle school, she grew further from me- still did great in school, but she spent less time at home, and more time with friends. We talked less and less, hardly interacting in the house.

I tried therapy during her late elementary years, but after two sessions, I decided it still didn’t feel right.

When she was born, I thought about putting her up for adoption, because there was no way I was going to be able to do this. But I couldn’t find it in me to go through with it. Ten years into her life, I still questioned it, but still couldn’t do it. No, not this far in.

I am my father’s son.

And turning into him was more tragic than being born.

It wasn’t until my daughter’s thirteenth birthday when it came to me the night before, that I didn’t know how to be a dad because my parents didn’t know how to be parents.

They provided food and shelter, but not love nor support or affection.

That’s why I didn’t know how to do those things, because no one’s ever shown them to me.

And that’s how I went from turning into something that I hated, to turning into something that could foster love and care and a real home, not just a house and a parent. I went from father to dad within a year, and my daughter blossomed as she entered high school- not that she wasn’t always a great kid, but with actual, genuine support that I worked so hard to learn to give, she flourished.

I went from being something I hated to being something I loved.

I am my father’s son, but I am no longer my father.