Fathers, be Good to Your Daughters Because Karma

“You don’t choose your family; they’re God’s gift to you.”

Whoever said that, must’ve not have a real-life family. In the real world, all families are dysfunctional. And why on heavenly earth would a god gift you a dysfunctional family? To be clear, I wouldn’t trade my mom and my brothers for anything in the world. But my dad? That’s a whole different complicated story.

I grew up without a father, and this is my story.

Up until maybe 6 or 7 years old, I used to see my dad on a daily basis. Then, he just stopped showing up. That’s all I remember. It’s funny because, at that age, you don’t really know what’s going on, but you know something’s missing. All you know is that you miss your dad and you get excited to see him when he sporadically comes visit.

My earliest happiest memories I have of him were the times when we would all eat lunch and, while having my own plate, I’d ask to have “un boca’o” (a bite of food, in Spanish) from his plate. I think he used to do that with each one of us and I always remember that with fondness.

I remember years later, when I was playing outside with my brother one day, all of a sudden I saw my dad coming home and it was the greatest feeling I can remember having at that age. Nothing else stayed in my head from that day; just my little heart rejoicing with happiness.

Then, life happened and I got older. I started to put those little pieces together, and it all started to make sense. Once you’re more mature you understand…sort of. I don’t remember asking my mom about him. I don’t remember ever questioning why he wasn’t there. My mom didn’t really talk much about their relationship either, so it was kind of hard for me to see her suffering. Maybe my older siblings understood, but I didn’t.

It wasn’t until my teen years when I knew it was not right for him to abandon us just like that. We’d see him once every few months, and it was because we used to visit our grandma, where he lived, once or twice a year. But soon after I spent less and less time with him. I started to feel resentment towards him. I couldn’t see him as a father figure anymore. I didn’t know this man, so I stopped calling him dad. It was very awkward seeing him during those transitioning years. My feelings for him were almost of hatred.

In recent years, my mom started opening up about it. I guess she feels ready and is in a more comfortable stage now. She went through so much, I can hardly believe it. My mom raised six kids. When I listen to her stories, I get lost in my thoughts, and tears fill my eyes because I just can’t believe that I was there while she was going through hell and I didn’t realize it. I also couldn’t believe that a woman could endure so much.

But she raised us well, all by herself, and I couldn’t be more proud of my brothers and myself. It is one of the bravest thing a woman can ever do. I will forever be grateful for all she’s given us and how she never gave up on us.

Years passed and my story is still the same — with a little twist of fate. My dad, who was never there for me, is now sick and unable to carry on with his on life, literally. He can’t do a lot of things on his own (such as run errands, go to the doctor, etc), so guess who’s had to drive him around now? Me!  The ultimate irony.

He has brothers and sisters that could do it, his closest family besides the children he never cared for. But at the beginning, they were never there for him, just like he wasn’t for me when I needed him the most. Long story short, I became the last most capable resort to help him with his delicate condition. I’ve had to spend a lot of time with him in the last few months because of that…and it feels like reopening healed wounds.

Although I knew I could never forgive him, I thought I was over it. I actually like it when we all hang out at my mom’s and he makes his ridiculously funny jokes and we all have a good laugh. He’s a really good person at heart; just not a good dad. And I was fine with seeing him around because I had accepted the fact that I had no father and that this man was just another member of the family who had no obligations with me. But the fact is that he is my dad, no matter how much I refuse to call him it.

My wounds are open again, and I don’t think he’ll ever really understand my pain, my reasons. Some men really are clueless.

Although I know I owe him nothing, I was the one who decided to help him out and be there for him now that he needs us. Perhaps I just feel sorry for him and I’m being a good samaritan or maybe…I’m just numb.

My conscious mind tells me that I have to do it for my mom more than anything because I know she cares, despite how much he hurt her. I would’ve preferred it came from the heart, but that’s life. I truly believe he’s paying for his mistakes, and the irony of it all is I am a piece in this puzzle.

So, fathers, just be good to your daughters.