I remember my childhood in fragmented moments, each one a vivid reminder of a wound that still hasn’t healed.
There’s the image of my father leaving, a trash bag slung over his shoulder, walking out the front door. My mother, heavily pregnant with my brother, lay on the couch, staring blankly out the window as snow fell in thick sheets, cloaking the world outside. I was just 5 years old, trudging home through the deep snow, desperate to see my father standing beside my mother when she opened the door. I imagined him wrapping me in a warm blanket and making me hot cocoa, a comforting ritual I yearned for.
Then there was his brief return after my brother was born. He brought a doll in a baby seat, a “big sister gift,” but all I really wanted was for him to stay forever. The cycle of absence continued as he vanished again into the night, leaving my mother cradling my baby brother in our darkened bedroom, while I lay at the foot of the bed, trying to keep her safe.
Not long after, we followed him across the country to California, chasing his shadow up and down the coast for years, never quite reclaiming the father we lost. Visits were infrequent, and he had a new home and a new wife, leaving my brother and me longing for the connection we could never fully grasp again.
Now, almost 35 years later, I am a mother of three daughters with a devoted husband who has been by my side for two decades. I’ve built the stable life I once wished for myself—one filled with love and security. I recognize my blessings, yet the pain from my past lingers. It resurfaces when my children fall ill, sending me spiraling into fear that they might not recover. It creeps in when my husband is late from work; my mind races with thoughts of something terrible happening to him.
I’m in a good place, I’ve sought therapy, and I’ve confronted the ghosts of my past, allowing myself to cry and scream through those memories. I maintain a relationship with my father and my stepmother—who was sometimes verbally abusive—but it stings that he remains oblivious to the pain he caused us as children. He often gets angry when I bring it up, so I’ve learned to keep the conversation light, sharing pictures of our daughters and leaving the deeper issues unspoken.
I bear this emotional scar, a void where my father should have been—a constant reminder of loss that has followed me throughout my life. I strive to ensure my children never face the same abandonment, and I’m determined to break this cycle of hurt.
Acceptance is my ongoing journey. I’m learning to embrace who I am and who my father is. The choice I have is to live my life as fully as possible, even as the hurt lingers in the background. A part of me will always be that little girl running home through the snow, wishing against hope that her father will be there when she opens the door. What can I say to comfort her when she faces that empty threshold? Do I have the strength to tell her that she’ll spend years chasing after love, only to end up feeling defeated?
She may feel crushed and irrevocably changed, but even in her brokenness, she’ll strive to create a fulfilling life for her family and herself—a life that honors the hopeful little girl she once was.
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In summary, while the past may always leave its mark, it’s possible to forge ahead and create a life filled with love, joy, and resilience for the next generation.
Keyphrase: Father abandonment and coping
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