I have a foggy recollection of my father. Perhaps it’s my mind’s way of protecting me, or perhaps it was because he was in my life for such a short time. There are less than a handful of memories I have of him, and each causes a salty ocean of tears. I remember his smell. He smelled stale, like cigarettes and construction boots. I remember the one thing he cooked was scrambled eggs. Even though he had a car, he only picked me up at daycare a few times. But when he did, it was clear that the daycare owner didn’t like him. My mom would finish her housekeeping job, take a train, then a bus to come pick me up. The only good memory I share with my dad is that whenever he gave me gum he’d give me another piece when it lost its flavor.

When I was five years old, he took my mom and me to a new apartment. We put down our things and he said he had to leave, saying he would be back. He hugged me, walked out the door, and that was it. He was gone.

Three years passed with little to no communication from my dad. My mother became my only family. She raised me well, filling the roles of both mother and father and teaching me how to be independent and dedicated. She works as a housekeeper, tirelessly dedicated to paving the way to a brighter future for her daughter, dreaming for the day she’ll see me graduate.

As I’ve grown older, the truth of my father’s negligence became more apparent. During the rare times he would call, he would victimize himself, making arguments while dazed with alcohol, and blaming my mother and me for not caring about him leaving. Though few and far between, these calls always ruined my day, making me feel terrible for being the so-called “bad daughter” for simply not tolerating his treatment.

As the years passed, the calls became fewer still. That is, until a hazy day this past summer. My mother and I received news that my father had returned from his home country. Even more shocking was the news that he was contending with a child support lawsuit. My mother had never filed this paperwork, meaning that my father had another child unknown to us. To make matters worse, the other child was a girl only a few months younger than me. 

Though this revelation stung, it did not crush me the way that it would have if I found out when I was younger. I was no longer trying to feed into my father’s drama and lies.

I am no longer the little girl who made herself cry over the words that her father heatedly delivered over grainy phone calls. I am focused on my future. I intend to pursue my academic goals and have the career that my mother always wished for me. I grew from these experiences, having only one parent. It was difficult for me to accept that I was not raised like the kids around me, but I realized that I've grown out of that scary phase of my life. Regardless of the relationship I have with my father now, my goal is to make my mother proud and the people that I've met proud of me too. My relationship with him has taught me to not let the past crowd my mind with negativity, but to continue onward, improving myself and being happy with the life I have and the life I can achieve.