They say that daughters often marry men resembling their fathers. Each time I hear this statement, I can’t help but feel grateful to whatever force is guiding me. I find comfort in knowing that my biological father is not my true father.
As I tore off my riding helmet, sweat clinging to my hair on that sweltering day, I turned to my stepfather, who had been standing in the heat for an hour watching my lesson. I asked him for a dollar to grab a drink from the vending machine. He readily agreed before placing me in the air-conditioned cab of his truck, which he had parked just minutes before the lesson ended.
But as soon as we hit the road, my biological father confronted me. “You will never ask that man for money again when I’m around. I am your father, and it’s my responsibility to provide for you,” he said, his voice cold and eerily calm. Even at twelve, I recognized the hypocrisy in his words.
Just weeks prior, he had cut off all financial support for my extracurricular activities—he was only willing to fulfill the minimum obligations required by law. My mother, a dedicated school nurse, was not well-off, and horseback riding was an expensive passion. While I took on chores at the stables to help with costs, my stepfather, an elementary school teacher, stepped in to assist financially.
As I sat trapped in that vehicle with an angry, jealous man, I realized that he had never been, and would never be, my real father. To the outside world, my biological father appeared successful and charismatic, but to me, he was distant, unforgiving, and intimidating.
My mother made the best decision of her life when she divorced him while pregnant with me. Shortly after, she began dating a teacher at her school, who would become a steadfast presence in my life. My biological father gave me the ridiculous nickname “Sports Fan,” despite my indifference to athletics, a reflection of his lack of understanding of who I truly was. He quizzed me on academic facts and restricted my access to television. He took me camping in muddy, gloomy woods where I felt isolated and uncomfortable. He even taught me to shoot a gun, which terrified me.
In contrast, my stepfather affectionately called me “Bunsarunski,” a whimsical nickname that seemed to capture my essence perfectly. He let me win at checkers, played with me, performed magic tricks, and patiently taught me to ride a bike.
While my biological father was married to my stepmother—a wonderful, accomplished woman—she eventually left, along with others I had grown close to, vanishing from my life without explanation. In stark contrast, my stepfather was a constant source of support and reliability. Being an only child, I longed for a sense of family, and his large, loving family provided me with a sense of belonging, tradition, and joy.
My biological father imposed expectations on me that I never desired to meet. On my thirteenth birthday, instead of a celebration, he took me to a secluded spot in a park to lecture me about my weight, reinforcing the hurtful words that bullies had planted in my mind. After that, I decided I’d had enough. I cut him out of my life entirely.
A true father is present for all the significant moments, whether it’s chasing a toddler with a pot after a mishap, comforting her after a bike accident, or supporting her through life’s milestones. He is there to witness school performances, teach her to drive, and stand by her side during tough times. He walks her down the aisle, creates embarrassing slideshows, and welcomes his grandchildren into the world. This is the kind of father my stepfather has been to me.
In essence, my stepfather is my real father.
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Summary
In recounting my experiences, I realize the stark contrast between my biological father and my stepfather, who has been my true father. While my biological father represented disappointment and unrealistic expectations, my stepfather provided unwavering support, love, and stability throughout my life. His presence has shaped my understanding of fatherhood and family, making me grateful for the relationship we share.