POST 2: THE EARLY MEMORIES AND LONGING (part 1)

My first memory of my father was like a New Year’s miracle. I was only four, and I remember the thrill I felt knowing he was coming. Every other kid in my kindergarten had a dad, and in my little heart, it was finally my turn. I didn’t know him well, but the idea of him being there felt magical.

But that magic didn’t last. I was too young to understand at the time, but he was drunk. My older brother and my dad got into a confrontation that night, voices rising and cutting through my excitement. My brother threatened to throw him off the balcony, and as the shouting filled the room, I just stood there, terrified, the sense of wonder disappearing as fast as it came.

After that night, I didn’t see my father often. Still, the longing for a father figure stayed with me. I had a best friend who lived on the first floor of our apartment building. She was an only child, and her home felt like the closest thing to the family I wished for. Whenever we went over, her dad would sit in his chair watching TV, and she’d run to him, climb into his lap, and tell him everything about our day. He’d smile, hug her close, and kiss her head, and I’d watch them, feeling a mixture of happiness for her and an ache for myself. I never resented her for having a dad; I just envied the love between them. Her home was warm, her parents kind and affectionate, and whenever I visited, I got a glimpse of what it might be like to have that kind of family.

My mother didn’t talk about my father much, but when she did, it was usually in anger or frustration. She’d tell us he was an alcoholic, that he’d come home drunk and turn into someone unrecognizable—jealous and sometimes even threatening. I learned later that he’d raised his hand to her only once, and that was the final line. She left him without hesitation, taking us with her, but as a kid, I couldn’t see her strength. I couldn’t understand why she had taken my father away from me. Whenever my older sister visited him, my mother would throw a fit. As a child, I only saw my mother as the one who stood in the way of that father-daughter bond I so desperately wanted.

But now, looking back, I see what I couldn’t back then. She had chosen to protect us from a life that would have been filled with fear and instability. She left to save us from what could have turned into something far darker. Even though I know this now, that childhood longing didn’t just go away. Subconsciously, I found myself searching for a father figure in any older man I met, hoping maybe, just maybe, I’d feel that same sense of love and protection I saw in other families.

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