Father’s Day


This year my son will celebrate his third Father’s Day. We’ll get my beloved a gift and write him a beautiful love letter and mean every word of it. Shaman is blessed to have a Dad that is here and that cares what happens to him.

My own story reads a bit like the musical, Mamma Mia. Only Meryl Streep is not my Mom and we did not laugh, sing and cry about the candidates that could be my possible Pa’s. We argued, hid, sneered, blamed and shamed mostly. Perhaps this is why my daughter that will be born in August must be Sufiye –  a part of me holds on to the hope that just like Sophie in the movie, my daughter and I will be able to make a song and a dance of anything life throws at the two of us. Unlike my Mom and I.

The man who did raise me is out of the picture. I can confidently say for good, but I’ll say just for today – because I can’t quite wrap my head around what forever is. I know a few things for damn sure:

  • He is dangerous.
  • He is a paedophile.
  • He cannot be allowed to even attempt to seduce my children.
  • My job is to protect my children and I cannot fail at this.
  • Nobody will mess with my kids and get away with it the way he did with me.
  • I love him and I miss him.
  • Mostinnermost I desperately yearn for the love of a Father.

There were years when I mixed up forgiving with condoning. All of those years he was in my life I had limped through that life, never getting closure on what happened to me that day that my childhood ended forever. I was 14. I was an innocent 14. He robbed me of that innocence. He viewed me as a sexual object, not a daughter – and it still kills me.

A very talented woman photographer and her very talented friend are hosting a  competition for the best Dad and Daughter pic for Father’s Day. The photographer posted a picture of herself and her Dad on Facebook to promote the competition.  Here is my first reaction.  I wanted to post one of me and my Dad, one I still have in a china frame, from a time before I knew he would do that to me. I can’t do that. But I can post the picture here and mourn some more for something that can never be.

And I can go and look for my real Father. It won’t necessarily be a Father and Daughter relationship, ever. He may be even worse than the dad who raised me. But I have to dream a bit and muse that maybe, just maybe – I’ll see why I’m taller than my Mom and sister. I’ll see why my eyes are so big and my skin so white, so white.

The little girl who dwells inside me, the one before it all went so horribly wrong still wants to dream about her amazing Daddy.

Wow, I can’t find the picture in the white china frame with the small blue roses. I am naturally suspicious but I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother had something to do with its disappearance. She’s probably scared I’ll throw it to the wall in a moment of one of those rages I can fly into from time to time. Sigh.  Perhaps I have hidden it from myself in a moment of insane pain.

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