My father left when I was three years old. At a very young age, I was informed I was the man of the house and I actually took the new responsibility very serious. We didn't hear to much from my father after the divorce was final. As a matter of fact, we heard nothing at all. After asking my mother so many questions as to where he was, we all just assumed he was dead. His lifestyle warranted the assumption. His alcoholism and drug use could have very easily done him in and so, that was our belief. I spent my younger years wishing I had my dad to look up to, to learn from, to love and admire. My mother was so focused on rearing us that she neglected her own needs and desires for companionship. She didn't even buy new clothes for herself because she wanted to make sure my brother and I had everything we needed. She saw not a dime in child support and her job as an LPN didn't provide the greatest pay but somehow, she made it work.
I saw my friends at soccer practice with their dads teaching them fundamentals of the game. I saw my friends after a day of fishing with their dads and the excitement in their eyes with the bounty of fish they brought home. I saw my friends preparing for camping trips, loading up tents and strapping canoes to the top of the car for a weekend in the woods. All of these things I longed to do with my dad, any dad. But I really wanted my dad. And I really thought he was dead, because how could your dad just walk away, never to think of your children again? I began to hope he was really no longer alive. If we was still around, and I found him, I was going to let him know how much I hated him for walking away and never picking up the phone to say hello or wish us a happy birthday. But that is not what happened.
It was early on Saturday morning, Paul and I were munching some Cap'n Crunch and watching cartoons. I was about 9 or 10 years old. This was our normal Saturday morning routine before tearing up the neighborhood with our shenanigans. Mom was in another room doing what ever. We didn't care, we had cartoons! There came a knock at the door and i figured it was the usual "Would you like a copy of Watch Tower and talk about God" knock. We didn't usually answer the door when the church-y looking people were outside, but this time, I didn't look before opening the door. As I opened the door, there stood a very scruffy, long haired man in an old army jacket and huge army duffel bag, back turned facing the road. I began to ask, "Can I help you?" and as I did, the disheveled looking man turned and without saying a word, just stood there and stared. I remember getting scared and became more frightened the longer the stare was focused in my direction. I didn't know what else to say and as I was getting ready to shut the door the man opened his mouth. "Michael?" How did this creepy looking guy know my name. As he uttered the next sentence, I felt the blood drain from my extremities and face. "I, I am... your father."
This could not be. How could this ghost of a man stand there and claim to be my father. As far as I knew, my father was and should be dead. How did he know my name? I closed the door and began crying as I flew into my mother's room. "Mom, there is a man at the door. He says he is our dad." And I witnessed the blood drain from my mother as well as her eyes grow large with panic. She collected herself and walked to the front door, asking Paul and I to go back to our routine. She opened the door and as her gaze confirmed what the man said, she turned to Paul and I as sadness fell over her face and stepped outside. We could hear the heated conversation that ensued. I could hear my mother crying, asking the man at the door how he could leave his two children without saying a word. Eventually, they both returned inside. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, looking down at my brother and I sitting on the floor. "Boys, this man is your father." I began to cry again. I clenched my fists and got up swinging at my dad. He didn't defend himself as if he knew this was justified. I hugged him. And in that instant, and only for a moment, I forgave him. The forgiveness I felt was short lived as I began to ask why. That was one of the weirdest Saturday mornings ever.
After some lengthy discussion between my mom and dad, it was decided that my father would be staying with us for a while so he could get back on his feet. This made me happy. And sad. And determined to get the answers to all of my questions. He was not going to get off so easy. It turns out that my pops was released from prison for drugs, and the only place he could think of to go was with us. I don't even think he knew if we still lived in the same place. When I got a little older, I heard all of the tales from the life he lived after the divorce, but those stories are for, perhaps, another day. I was glad that I finally had the father I had dreamed of having, though not ideal, it made me happy nonetheless. My resentment and anger waned over the years as I learned to love him again. And though I loved him very much, my anger and disappointment eventually grew into pity and understanding. I began to realize and know why he did the things that he did. He didn't mean to hurt us, and it was probably best I spent my early years not knowing the man that was my father.
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