The Unanswered Question That Follows Me Home
The moment my daughter curled her tiny fingers around mine, something shifted inside me. It wasn’t just the overwhelming love or the sudden weight of responsibility—it was a quiet, persistent question that began echoing in my mind: How could he leave?
For years, I thought I’d made peace with my father’s absence. He walked out when I was nine, leaving behind a half-empty closet and a silence so heavy it seemed to swallow the house. Back then, I assumed fathers were supposed to vanish. After all, mine did. But holding my child for the first time, I felt a visceral rejection of that idea. How could anyone hold a person this small, this trusting, and choose to walk away?
The Ghost of Fatherhood
Growing up, I resented my dad for abandoning us. His absence wasn’t just a blank space; it was a presence, like a shadow that followed me to Little League games, school plays, and graduations. I’d see other fathers cheering or fixing bikes in driveways and feel a mix of envy and confusion. What did they have that we didn’t? I’d wonder. But over time, the anger faded into resignation. By adulthood, I’d convinced myself that his leaving was a fact of life, like bad weather or flat tires—unpleasant but unavoidable.
Then came parenthood.
The Weight of Being Seen
My daughter is four now, with a laugh that sounds like wind chimes and a habit of declaring random facts with the gravity of a philosopher (“Daddy, clouds are just floating water”). She’s also developed an unnerving ability to notice things. Last week, she caught me staring at an old photo of my dad and asked, “Who’s that sad man?”
I hadn’t realized I looked sad. But there it was: grief I thought I’d buried resurfacing in the way I held my shoulders or hesitated before answering her questions about grandparents. Parenthood, I’ve learned, is like living with a tiny mirror. Your child reflects back not just your joy but every unhealed crack in your heart.
The Paradox of Understanding Less
Becoming a parent was supposed to answer questions, not create new ones. I thought I’d finally “get” my dad—maybe even forgive him. Instead, the opposite happened. The more I love my daughter, the less sense his absence makes.
Take bedtime routines. Some nights, after reading Goodnight Moon for the 47th time, I’ll linger in her doorway just to watch her sleep. In those quiet moments, it’s physically painful to imagine walking out the front door and never coming back. How could anyone do that? The math doesn’t add up. The love I feel for my child isn’t abstract; it’s in the bones, the bloodstream, the muscle memory of catching her when she stumbles.
And yet.
The Dangerous Game of Comparison
There’s a trap in comparing my fatherhood to my dad’s. For one thing, I know nothing about his inner world. Was he scared? Overwhelmed? Did he ever sit in his car down the block, gripping the steering wheel and wondering if he’d made a mistake?
All I have are fragments: Mom’s stories about his restlessness, a handful of awkward birthday calls, the way he’d tap his foot nervously at family gatherings. Maybe he wasn’t cold-hearted—just lost. Maybe fatherhood felt like wearing someone else’s shoes. But here’s the problem: understanding his humanity doesn’t heal the wound. If anything, it deepens it. Because now I see him not as a villain but as a flawed person who failed at the one job that matters most. And that is terrifying.
The Fear of Becoming the Ghost
Some nights, I lie awake wondering if his DNA is a curse. What if his inability to stay is hereditary? What if, one day, I wake up and feel the urge to run? The fear isn’t rational, but parenthood has a way of amplifying every insecurity.
My therapist says this anxiety is common among parents who grew up with abandonment. “You’re not your father,” she reminds me. And she’s right—statistically, historically, behaviorally. But trauma isn’t logical. It lives in the gut, not the brain.
So I overcompensate. I say “I love you” too often. I take hundreds of photos. I promise myself I’ll remember every phase, even the exhausting ones. It’s like building a dam against a flood that might never come.
The Gift She Doesn’t Know She Gave
Here’s what my daughter has taught me: Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a series of choices. You choose to stay up with a sick child. You choose to apologize when you lose your temper. You choose to show up, day after day, even when it’s hard.
My dad made different choices. I’ll never understand them, and maybe that’s okay. The mystery of his absence used to feel like a hole in my story. Now, it’s just a footnote. My daughter doesn’t need me to solve it—she needs me present.
Letting Go of the Answer
Parenting has a funny way of clarifying things. I used to think closure meant getting answers or an apology. Now I realize closure is realizing some questions don’t need answers to matter less.
My dad’s absence isn’t a puzzle to solve; it’s a reality to outlive. Every time I push my daughter on the swings or wipe her tears, I’m rewriting the story. The love I give her isn’t about fixing the past—it’s about building something new.
I’ll never understand how he could leave. But maybe that’s the point. Understanding him would require living his life, feeling his fears, wearing his regrets. And I’m too busy living mine.
After all, there’s a small person waiting for me in the next room who still believes daddies don’t disappear.
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