Almost a year ago I wrote about my biological father, the one I’ve never met and only talked to on the phone twice as a child.
I wrote him a letter three years ago and a year later he responded with a Christmas card and two pictures of himself as young adult. Finally learning what he looked like, after over twenty years of wondering, seemed like enough for me at the time. It closed the door on that chapter of my life of wishing for a father, wishing for me, or so I thought.
Since the moment I had internet access I’ve googled him every now and then out of curiousity, found out where he lived, his age and what he did for a living, and that he was married.
Five days ago I found out that he had died.
Reading his obituary I found out more about him that I knew while he was alive. At the time, his death didn’t really bother me. He was 70 years old, it seemed like he had a full life. His obituary talked about how active he was in his church and how many friends he had. I brushed it off and went about my day, telling myself that it shouldn’t bother me.
After a few hours it start to hit me and I guess I started to grieve.
More for the end of deep buried dreams than for anything. Even as I grew older I think that I always secretly hoped that one day we would meet and he’d express regret and all of the proper emotions of having missed out on my childhood and then we’d live happily ever after.
It’s not going to happen now and part of me is sad for that. I wish I had memories of a happy childhood to fall back on, I wish I could say that I’d never lacked for a father figure that I felt loved anyway… but I didn’t. Now that part of my life is closed and never to be recaptured in any way.
It makes me really sad.
I wish you would have loved me, or cared enough to try
I wish you would have said hello before you say goodbye