Photographs

I only met my father once. I was 13. How was it that I came to be 13 years old, having never laid my eyes on my father? And how was it that after 13 years this man, who I didn't even know, sat beside me while my Mom captured our image forever with the lens of her camera? All these years later, not only are these photographs the only pictures I have of my Father, they are also the only pictures taken of us together, ever.

I was conceived on New Year's Eve the night my Mom lost her virginity. She had just turned 18 a few months before. There is no romantic story of high school sweethearts pledging their undying love to each other. In fact, they weren't even a couple. It was just a night where, according to my mother, things went too far. Young and pregnant she tried to reach out to him, to tell him he was soon to be a father. She showed up on his door step only to be greeted and eventually turned away by his Mother, my Grandmother. My Father, it turns out had enlisted in the military and had been deployed. What my Mom didn't know was his Mother made the choice to not tell him about me while he was away serving, believing that it was best for him to not be distracted.

Less than a year after my birth, finding herself pregnant again, my Mom married my Step Dad, Father of my soon to be brother. This man was, for all intents and purposes, the only Father I ever knew, yet I was always aware that he wasn't my "real" Dad. At some point my biological Father was told about my existence because my Mom was awarded child support, a meager amount paid to her each month, very rarely reviewed or increased. However, over a decade after my birth, she was granted a review hearing. I was present at this review meeting, as she deemed me "old enough" to understand these things. It was here that it was suggested (by my Mother) that my Father meet me. My Mom made a point to pass a picture through the mediator, who spoke first with my Mother and then to my Father, but never both of them in the same room at the same time. I remember her sliding the most recent school photo of me across the table where the woman on the other side slipped that little piece of me into a large folder containing many other documents pertaining to me. What if I got lost in all that paper work? And if I did make it to him, what would happen when I was presented to him? What would he do with this picture of me, I wondered? What would he think of me?

According to my Mother, my Father had always denied that I was his. When pushed my Mother stood firm in her insistence that I was indeed his child and if he should doubt this, all he would need to do was to look upon me with his own eyes, and he would see what was so obvious to her as she watched me grow all of these years. I know I reminded her of him as she remarked often of the pieces of me that were "just like him". If my Mother was proud of me, and wanted to show off the girl I had become, that wasn't apparent in this exchange. Her motive when she shared this picture seemed to be to provide him with visual proof. This was before DNA tests were done regularly to confirm or deny such claims. She wanted him to see me so that he couldn't deny that I resembled him. It must be that he saw this as well in this photograph he was given. And so after 13 years, I guess he figured it was time to meet me. This girl child in the picture, who was quickly blossoming into a young woman, that did indeed resemble him.

The day he was scheduled to come, I was nervous, but indifferent. I remember it was summer time and my Mom and I were at home. No one else was there that day. I'm sure it was purposeful, my Step Dad and brother shooed away for the afternoon so that it would be just the three of us, but at the time I didn't put much thought to the planning of this meeting. I was lost in my own world, not aware of everyone around me and how they were dealing with this impending event. I don't remember my Mom being flustered or nervous, or my Step Dad being concerned or even my brother being curious. I don't remember a flurry of activity readying the house for the arrival of this stranger. And so it was with very little fanfare, I too seemed to recede into my own thoughts and feelings, never talking to anyone about what was going on in my head while I waited for him to come.

Had I been asked I'm not sure I would have spoken my heart's true feelings. I was too afraid to admit that more than anything I hoped he would liked me. That he would want me to be his daughter. I secretly wanted him to rescue me. Like Rapunzel in the tower, I was a princess just waiting for him. I wanted him to take me away to his life, where he would be my daddy and I would be his little girl. I daydreamed about what life would be like with him. I wanted to hear him tell me that he would have come sooner. I wanted him to explain the tragic reasons why he had stayed away so long, which would soothe over the hurt of his absence for all of these years. I wanted him to want me.
I remember exactly what I wore that day. One might wonder why this detail of all the details would be so burned into my memory. But what I remember is that I didn't intend to wear what I wore. Jean shorts that were frayed at the ends and went to my knees and the red and white striped shirt with stars on the puffy sleeves that was too short and flared out at the neck like a skirt, this was what I put on that morning in haste, but never intended to wear when I met HIM. But as the time of his arrival approached, I think I went into some sort of denial about what was happening. I busied myself with my normal summer routine, not wanting to admit that HE was really coming. Not wanting to let myself believe this was really happening, just in case he decided not to show up. So when he did arrive, I was still wearing my grubby "hang around the house" clothes. When I look at these pictures to this day I remind myself: I would not have worn that outfit outside of the house, yet I managed to have it on when I met my ONE AND ONLY long lost Father for the first time.

Even more astonishing than what I do remember is what I don't. I cannot remember any words he spoke. Maybe he didn't speak to me at all, although I would find that hard to believe. But in my mind not only can I not recall what his voice sounded like, I can't even remember any semblance of questions or comments he made. In my memory he is silent for the whole visit that lasted several hours, while my Mother babbled on and on about me and who I, this girl next to him, was. He rarely even looked at me, but we both just sat silent and listened to my Mother.

And when it was time for him to go, I don't remember a mention of "next time", or an exchange of contact information to further this new found relationship. Maybe my mother knew somehow that this would be the one and only visit, and so her instinct was to capture this moment forever on film. Before he could leave, she awkwardly pushed us together, at one point even asking him to put his arm around me, so she could take our picture. He obliged. If we were uncomfortable by this display of affection between practical strangers, it wasn't captured in these pictures. She snapped the photos of us smiling as if we did this all the time. A happy daughter and her Dad. Just as he came, he left. And as he drove away from the curb that day I somehow knew he was driving away from me too.

The tragedy of this moment is, had I never met him, I might have never had my heart broken when he failed to come back. After all, for all the years he was absent, I made up all kinds of reasons in my head as to why he would have nothing to do with me. But once we met, how could I reconcile in my young mind the fact that after meeting me, he still walked away and never came back? Was I not cute enough? Lovable enough? Smart enough? Likable? Was I not the daughter he wanted? What was wrong with me? I never spoke of this self doubt and disappointment to anyone and no one ever asked. He was there one afternoon and then gone. Never to return, never to explain. And I have always wondered why.

7 years later, not much older than my Mom was when she had me, I held my own daughter in my arms and the weight of all that being a parent entails had yet to fully sink in, but loving this child of mine with every fiber of my being. I wondered if he ever thought about me. He couldn't have loved me like this. Parental love must not always be instinctual for everyone. I wondered if he would like to be a grandpa. But mostly I wondered if SHE, my new baby daughter, would be good enough to make him want to come back. I couldn't imagine anyone not loving this beautiful, perfect little girl I now held close.

Of course we sent a wedding announcement when I married and we sent a birth announcement as well, but both had no response from him. So when I sent a Christmas card the following year, I expected the same. I don't even know why I sent it, even telling myself when I addressed the envelope to him, this was the last time I would send such correspondence. After all, he knew where to find me.

So on that day in late January when I opened my mailbox to find a letter from his address, I stopped, holding that envelope in my hand staring at the return address which I had long ago memorized. He had finally written to me. I went back and forth in my mind with the options. He was going to explain why all of these years he had abandoned me, and how now he was ready to be my Father. Or he was writing to tell me never to write to him again. There was no in between. So I stood there unable to open this envelope, frozen in that spot, afraid of what this letter might contain.

It was neither. It was, in fact, an announcement of my Father's death, sent to me from the woman whom he had lived with for most of his adult life. A short note from her accompanied the memorial service flier and explained that she wanted to let me know that my Father had died on (oh the irony) New Year's day of a brain aneurysm. He had been buried shortly there after, weeks ago as I sat reading this note. She was sorry to tell me this way, but she didn't know how else she could have shared this news with me. And so in that moment it was done. He was gone. There would be no magical reunion where he hugged me and told me he was sorry. There would be no more hope held in my heart that one day we would have some sort of relationship. He was dead and with him: any optimism I had of one day reconciling my childhood suspicions with his explanations of why he stayed away.

But also, with him, died any fears of further rejection. Now I can say, he stays away because he is dead. Not because I am not good enough or somehow my Mother was to blame, or that he doesn't want to be a grandfather to my children. In my mind, he died before he could make this right, but someday, he intended to make this right. Right or wrong, it is what I tell myself to this day.

All that is left, in fact all that there ever was, are these few pictures of him and me. Smiling into the camera that day. For anyone who sees, it appears very different than the reality of the situation. These pictures captured what never really was: a Father and his daughter, together and happy in each other's company.