Father Dearest; Friend or Foe?

I sit here on my kitchen table, scrambling through my mind across a slide deck of memories left by a man, biologically referred to as 'my father'. Who is this man? Sadly, I don't know at present who he is due to the fact that we left him when I was so young, but my flashbacks are vivid and full of colour, enough to paint an image of him so visceral in my mind's eye.

Where do I even begin? The kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions begs to be stopped, like a merry-go-round of images in my mind.

We, my mother and I, left my father when I was only four and my mother was twenty-five. The ache that I experienced when I was five, of feeling abandoned, has been an ache that still lingers on in the embers of my soul, down where a fire cackles and memories are vivid and painful.

Made more hurtful was the strong sense of loneliness with the surrounding cheer and laughter from other fathers and children heard during my court-ordained visit, adding further insult to injury when my father scarsely seemed to bother with my presence. I tugged on his sleeve, almost begging for him to play with me but to no avail. So instead I left the bench we sat on and played by myself, leaving me to feel so alone and neglected while in a room filled with the brightness and happiness of children playing with their fathers.

Another court-ordained visit was arranged, and the child in me prayed for another moment of time with my father. Perhaps he would play with me this time but he... never showed up. A message passed on by a court clerk informed us that he had flown back to Malawi to be re-married.

He never showed up for me when I needed him most and instead placed his selfish desires first. This allowed me to ensure I prioritized the right things in life and to do the right thing. Now that I am twenty-three years old, I could never imagine hurting an innocent child in this way by failing colossally at being a parent.

Due to the fact that he didn't show up for me as a five-year old, I never want to show up for him again. My memories still carry with them a deep wound in my heart that I can never cease to forget.

Perhaps I should be starting at the tale of my very existence because it might bode well for you, the reader, to understand where this all started.

An arranged marriage took place between my orphaned mother and my father when she was only nineteen. Soon after she fell pregnant but despite this serving as a delight for the young couple, my father drove my mother straight to the surgery to have me aborted.

It is at that moment, where my mother, young, married and resilient, fought for me to remain in their lives from the moment I was conceived.

Looking back, I can understand why I played such an insignificant role in my fathers life as he never wanted me in the first place! From yelling at me to throwing me across the room in a heated argument with my mother, he... never....cared.

Might I add, when he threw me across the room onto the sofa, my body still shivers at the reliving of the whiplash I endured. It was after this incident that my mother left him for good. And to think that I still missed him and looked forward to the court-ordained visits mentioned earlier, make my heart ache for the child in me that wished and begged for her father's love which never existed for her.

There are many more fragmented memories but the ones mentioned suffice to paint a picture of my father in my mind.

Last year, a relative reached out to ask me and described my father as a 'lovely man' who would be 'very happy to see me'. But now this makes me grapple with an identity of a man that the child in me fails to recognize.

So I ask myself, father? are you a lovely man? a friend? a foe? have you changed? or are you merely compensating for the pain you caused your child decades past?

The lesson he imparted is one of sorrow and the effects of trauma on a young child's mind. How they will search for you in prominent male figures in their life who serve to be better human beings than he was.

But perhaps the biggest lesson and greatest impact is the one created when comparing my single mother to my father. She walked out on him fleeing domestic violence and a narcissistic relationship centered around my father a lone. She was only twenty-five and I was four years old. Wow. My mother makes me proud, she was and is my mother, my father and my siblings rolled into one.

How could I ever miss my father when my mother took on both roles with grace and dignity and raised me with the values, moral compass and ethics that make me the person I am today.

And so, dear reader, I leave this tale here and ask you, would you give my father a chance? A conversation? Moments of your time? Would you give him the chance to explain if he is my dear father after all? Or a foe in sheep's clothing?