I think I’ve finally gotten over Father’s Day.  It took a week and a good amount of wine, but I’m glad it’s over.  At this age, and after the amount of therapy I’ve been through, you’d think I’d be past all this.  But I’m not.   

I’ve never been one for Father’s Day. I guess I feel like I’ve never had a ‘father.’ Sure there was the guy who lived with us, he put food on the table and a roof over our heads.  I wasn’t abused and I believe – or try to believe – that he did his best. But his best wasn’t anything near what the little girl in me needed. While other children’s dads doted over them, my father never hid the fact that he believe other children were better, smarter, more well-behaved. 

I’m well aware of how this affected my life. I spent early dating years with older men.  Then I realized what I was doing, began praying that I’d never marry a man like my father and to this day I question my judgement. No surprise, I never married.  Not even my children’s father. I like to tell myself that I just haven’t found ‘the one.’ But there are nights I lay awake wondering if maybe I’m just not good enough. Now, I’m old enough to know that I must take responsibility for my own life and move on. But it seems that no amount of therapy can change how I feel every Father’s Day. 

So my Father’s Day tradition is much different from that of many other people.  It starts in the card store while trying to find the perfect card.  One that’s not thankful for the support, love or example my dad set for me.  Tearfully I read card after card with Hallmark emotions I can’t relate to. If another customer catches my sniffle I casually brush it off by commenting how wonderful it is that writers can so beautifully describe  the love we feel for our fathers. Then I continue my search through the cards till I find the perfect one for me.  The one that just says, Happy Father’s Day. 

I wasn’t always this way. Way back in the day when I was still clamoring for his acceptance, I wrote an article for a magazine with quotes from celebrities about their fathers.  I closed it with a tribute to my own. I beautifully framed the piece and gave it to my father – sure it would be taken as the very special gift I intended it to be. It ended up in the garage before making its way to the garbage. 

Facebook made it markedly worse this year. I should have known better than to log on last Sunday. My heart broke with every post I read that gushed about who was daddy’s little girl, who was the best father in the world and how special dads made their children feel. Then there were the photos. The father daughter dances at weddings. Fathers walking their precious little bundles down the aisle. And the sad remembrances about dads who had passed – and were so missed. 

When my father passes, I’ll cry.  Not because he’s gone.  But because I’ll never have the chance to have the father I needed. The father I wanted. The one who made me feel special. The one who thought the sun rose and set on me. The one any little girl deserves.