By all accounts, legal and biological, I have had three fathers, a bounty that has left me reflecting on what it means to be a father, and maybe more so, what it means to be someone’s daughter.
On the outside, it looked like I had everything going for me. But on the inside, I lived in a swirling storm of hurt.
She came to me again at some point and pleaded her case further, believing that the tattoo she wanted and the reasoning behind it would soften me. Her dad died when she was 12. What she was proposing was a small tattoo, on the inside of her arm, of his very recognizable signature.
I was a wounded and frightened child trying to live an adult life. After a year I wanted to have a baby, after all when you are finishing up your last year in high school, and a successful year at that, and you have outgrown the party scene, the next logical step would be to start a family.
I froze when I saw my tiny daughter hooked up to tons of tubes. I couldn’t do anything but sit in a chair and cry while I stared at her.
There was Ariana—sweet-faced like her father, wise for her years. She hugged me firmly, fully to her heart. I was instantly smitten.
I wasn’t dreaming. I was fully awake. Someone or something had settled beside me. This was the first time it had happened to me.
I have never told my son to “man up” but rather “shake it off” if he falls off his bike as that message will play out differently in his adult life
As her daughter’s college freshman year comes to a close, this author wonders how their relationship will change and what will be the next step for both of them.