My father left when I was about two years old. I thought he disappeared, but I learned later that he just moved in with another woman. Throughout most of my childhood I was waiting for him to come back. Sometimes he would call on my birthday, or my mom would invite him up for some special occasion. Usually he’d agree to come, but never show up. I remember sitting on the curb outside our house all day one time when he’d promised to come. He never did.

Last June my mom called me and told me he’d died. His parents had tried to contact her the previous Monday, but she was out of town and didn’t get the message until Friday. I’d missed his funeral. That Sunday I found out that his family hadn’t mentioned me in his obituary. My mom asked them to have it reprinted and they refused. They wouldn’t return phone calls or e-mails, and the hand written letter I sent them was returned unread. Even the flowers my mother took to his grave were removed. It got messier, but that isn’t important.

For as long as I could remember I have been depressed about my father’s absence in my life, but I always believed, truly believed, that some day he and I would get a chance to talk. That I could tell him how much I had missed his being there, and that I loved him despite everything. Now he’s gone and that can never happen. I don’t know if I will ever be able to come to terms with that.
musumesan musumesan
Aug 3, 2010