I have very few memories of my father from childhood. The ones I do possess are shrouded in a misty haze, akin to vintage photographs that have faded over time. Reflecting on my dad feels like trying to recall a distant film — I often can’t distinguish between what is real and what my imagination has conjured.
I remember a kitchen chair that was always empty during meals, his briefcase resting by the door, and the familiar scent of Old Spice aftershave mingling with the aroma of coffee when he’d kiss the top of my head. I can still hear the sound of his polished shoes on our hardwood floors and the creaking of the front door as he left for yet another interminable business trip.
Mostly, these are fragments — the echoes of his departures.
However, amidst those fleeting moments, there are far fewer but infinitely more treasured memories of times he was actually present. I can picture him laughing in the sunlight, lifting me onto his shoulders, or gently pushing me on a tire swing in our backyard, my heart racing as I soared higher and higher.
A little girl loves her father like that, if given the opportunity.
Yet, one memory remains painfully vivid. I recall staring out the back window of an old station wagon, waving goodbye to the white house that symbolized my entire world. My father stood on the porch, waving until our car turned the corner, heading towards a new life — one that didn’t include him.
I was the child of an absent father.
In my small town, this meant asking an uncle to accompany me to father-daughter dances or seeking a coach to escort me onto the football field during homecoming. I would glance at school flyers requesting dad volunteers for spring sports and throw them away, knowing they would only bring guilt to my mother.
It was a constant reminder of the void in my home.
In fourth grade, my teacher assigned us to draw a picture of our families. I illustrated my mom with her curly hair and bright smile, my brother with his braces, and my sister sporting a side ponytail. I even included our cat with its crooked tail. Then, I hastily sketched my father and turned it in.
“Lauren, you forgot to color in your Daddy’s face! He’s missing his smile!” Mrs. Thompson returned my artwork.
“No, ma’am. I just couldn’t remember what it looked like.”
Her frown led to me visiting the school counselor for what became the first of many therapy sessions. Untangling the complexities left by a disappearing parent isn’t easy, but that’s what we worked on: learning to trust, love, and give others a chance before writing them off.
I suppose it worked because years later, I met a charming, blue-eyed man and fell head over heels. I trusted him completely. We were young, naive, and broke, but we decided to tie the knot anyway.
On our first anniversary, I returned from class to find our apartment in disarray — overdue bills, a pest problem, and barely any money left in our account. I couldn’t help but wonder what we were thinking getting married and how we could ever create a happy family under such circumstances.
That’s when my husband emerged with donuts and candles, singing a silly rendition of “Happy Anniversary.” We made our wishes and enjoyed our treat while seated on the floor, feeling rich in love despite our financial struggles.
Then we became parents.
This morning, amidst the usual chaos, I watched my husband dive headfirst into parenting. We are a team, tackling tasks together — whether it’s me preparing breakfast while he packs lunches or him changing diapers while I organize backpacks.
I observed him making his coffee, our toddler nestled on his hip. He carefully taught her about the hot mug in his hand as she repeated the word “hot.” My heart swelled as I returned to unpacking my son’s backpack, emptying its contents onto the counter.
Among the usual mess, I found a crumpled piece of construction paper with the words “my family” scrawled across the top in his teacher’s handwriting. My breath caught as I smoothed out the wrinkles, tears threatening to spill.
There was a drawing of my little boy in a blue T-shirt, his sister, me, our dogs, and most importantly, my husband — smiling and holding a fishing pole.
In that moment, eternal crayon evidence showed that my children have the father I never had. I am profoundly grateful.
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In summary, while my childhood was marked by an absent father, I am incredibly thankful that my children have a loving dad who is fully present in their lives.