They say daughters often marry men who resemble their fathers. Each time I hear this adage, I can’t help but feel grateful—grateful that my biological father is not my true father.
After a long, sweaty hour of horseback riding under the scorching sun, I tore off my helmet, feeling parched. I turned to my stepfather, who had spent the same hour watching my lesson, and asked him for a dollar for the vending machine. He happily obliged and helped me into the cab of my father’s truck, which was still cool from the air conditioning, as he had arrived just minutes before my lesson ended.
But as soon as we hit the road, my father’s demeanor changed. “You will never ask that man for money again when I’m around,” he said, his voice both angry and unnervingly calm. “I am your father, and you will come to me for what you need. I will take care of you.” Even at twelve, I recognized the hypocrisy. Just weeks earlier, my biological father had cut off financial support for my extracurricular activities, leaving my mother, a school nurse, to shoulder the burden. Horseback riding is far from cheap, and while I mucked stalls to help with costs, my stepfather—a dedicated teacher—stepped in to support my passion.
Trapped in that metal box with an angry, possessive man, I realized that he had never truly been, and would never be, my real father.
To those outside our family, my biological father appeared handsome, accomplished, and driven. But to me, he was cold, frightening, and resentful. My mother had the foresight to divorce him while she was pregnant, one of the best decisions for her and for me. When I was just eight months old, she began dating my stepfather, a teacher at her school, who quickly became a stable presence in my life.
My biological father nicknamed me “Sports Fan,” a title that seemed absurd since I had no interest in sports. This misnomer epitomized our relationship: he neither knew me nor cared to learn about my interests. He quizzed me on math and science, banned television, and took me on miserable camping trips that left me feeling cold and lonely. He even taught me to shoot a gun, which terrified me.
In contrast, my stepfather gave me a nickname—“Bunsarunski”—that made no sense yet felt just right. He let me win at games, played with me, showed me magic tricks, and taught me to ride a bike. He was consistent and loving, a stark contrast to the unstable relationships with my biological father’s other partners, who would come and go from my life without explanation.
On my thirteenth birthday, instead of a celebration, my biological father took me to a secluded park road to lecture me about my weight. His words only reinforced the insecurities planted by bullies at school. I didn’t want that kind of relationship anymore, so I cut him out of my life.
A real father is there for the messy moments—like chasing a toddler around with a pot after a mishap, picking her up after a bike crash, or caring for a rabbit that was once a cute idea but later abandoned. He supports you through every school performance, teaches you to drive a stick shift while you struggle, and stands by your mother through illness. He walks you down the aisle, creates embarrassing slideshows for your wedding, helps you paint your first home, and cries tears of joy when you announce your pregnancy. He arrives at the hospital at 3 a.m. to meet his grandchild and becomes their proud grandfather.
My stepfather is my real father.
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In summary, while my biological father may have held the title, my stepfather truly embodies what it means to be a dad. His love and support have shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined.
Keyphrase: True Fatherhood
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