Since I was in grade shortie, I remember dreading Father’s Day.
A constant reminder that I don’t have one.
I just don’t know where he is.
Do I dread the hundreds of posts about how great a father is, while I wallow in lack of my own. Will everyone leave me, I ask my infant self.
Do I appreciate my step-father who glared at me from the kitchen table every night while I cried from his hate into my rice bowl.
Am I to remember my third father as breaking my mother’s heart with his obligations towards his own mother, or be grateful he was so kind in his patience with her.
Maybe I should relish in meeting my biological father when I was five with a mean step-mother who pinched me.
Lost my butterfly ring gift. Gold. Hollow.
Or last visit when I was 15 years old, being passed a birthday hundred dollar bill, some cheques, and being told to leave him alone. “No address, cause you’ll stalk me,” he says.
But this will only serve to better me, insha’Allah. IF I ever husband myself up again, I’ll be sure that he’s a great father figure. The kind who will be there. Trustworthy, humorous, and easygoing but firm with children (no spanking, just speaking kindly).
Lacking a healthy role model, doesn’t make me any less successful in relationships, according to some experts, however, it has definitely meant certain areas not as well developed in my life.
Then again, some are also scarred from having father figures in their life. So maybe, somehow, this was a blessing in disguise.
So when people ask me where I’m from. And I really don’t know where 50% of of my DNA comes from (asking my mother only hurts single motherhood struggles), I just make stuff up.
Thailand? Or Singapore?
It’s probably why it hurts so much when strangers in the Muslim community just come up, without introducing themselves, blurt, “so where you from?!”.
slapping snapping at them, I just smile say, “Toronto.”
May it be a time of celebration for great fathers, comfort for those who miss theirs, and coziness for all those in between.