Sometimes I forget that my dad is dead. I know, that seems strange.

My mom and dad divorced when I was 2. My mom moved away and never looked back. I don’t really know the whole story – as each side I’ve heard is fairly different. I never heard from my dad from that day on. As I grew up I questioned about him sometimes, wondered about him often, and dreamt about him always. But honestly, I didn’t feel like it impacted me much. I didn’t know any better. He was a man I didn’t know (in reality or through stories), had (essentially) never met, and who (apparently) had no desire to meet me. My mom filled both rolls for me and I can never be more thankful or grateful for all that she did.

When I reached high school my questions about him grew bigger and my longing for meeting him grew greater. As a sophomore, it all became too much for me. I needed to know. So, I rummaged through old documents I knew my mom kept in the basement and found an old, yellow piece of paper that had what seemed to be my grandfather’s name on it. The address was in Vermont and could easily have been an old one – but I figured I had no other option. I wrote a short letter explaining myself and finally mailed it, after fretting for too long.

When I finally heard back, the letter sort of disappointed me, in a way. I’m not sure what I expected. The fairy tale, I suppose. Instead, my dad’s handwriting was almost illegible and his topics of conversation revolved around NASCAR and what drink was his favorite (Coors Lite). He shared his phone number, address, and wrote that I was welcome to come see him anytime that I wished. I was very taken aback. I hadn’t really stopped to think what my dad’s life would actually be like, or who he would really be.

After receiving the first letter, I didn’t write back. I didn’t know what to say. Shortly after that, I received a letter from my grandmother and grandfather (whom I had also never heard from). They told me a bit about themselves and requested that I keep the lines of communication with my dad open. They also sent pictures, including a few recent ones of my dad, and some old ones of the 2 of us together when I was a baby. They mentioned that when they hung stockings for the family by the tree at Christmas time, they always hung one for me as well. I sobbed for a long time after reading that.

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Unfortunately, they also tried to place the blame on my mom for what happened between my parents and as the reason for my dad being absent from my life. At that point I decided I was done with the whole thing for a while. I was so angry and hurt, that I had to step back.

On the night of my 16th birthday, I got a phone call. My mom answered, asked who it was, and the person on the other line hung up without answering. They called back again a few minutes later. It was my grandmother. She asked if my dad could speak with me for my birthday. My mom was still in the dark about everything at this point, but she agreed, as long as she could listen on the other line. I don’t really remember the conversation. It was very surreal – talking to someone who was supposed to be my father, yet whom I knew less than the mailman. My mom and I had a long talk after that and I decided that communicating with my dad and his family wasn’t something I was really ready for yet.

As my independence level reached a peak in college, I decided to write to my dad again. He always requested to talk to me on the phone (as he didn’t enjoy writing letters) or asked me to visit, but I never agreed to either. I wanted to get to know my dad, I enjoyed writing to my dad, but I wasn’t ready to actually meet my dad face-to-face. We wrote many years to each other over the years. He even sent me birthday cards…something I never, ever thought I’d get from my dad.

I remember writing him a letter either before or after I got married, telling him I had always dreamt of him walking me down the aisle. Every movie I’ve ever watched with a dad walking his daughter down the aisle has made me cry. Watching my friends’ dads walk them down the aisle was even harder. And forget watching father/daughter dances…I usually had to excuse myself from the room for a bit.

Our letters became fewer as adult life took over. At some point, his good friend/neighbor, friend requested me on Facebook. She thought it would be an easier way for us to chat than writing letters. It was. We were able to talk about our past. I let him know I wasn’t mad at him anymore. We wanted so badly to meet and had started making plans to do so.

On March 21, 2013 his neighbor sent me a message asking if she could call me. I politely declined. The next morning she wrote back to let me know that my dad had a massive heart attack the day before and had passed away. He was 55. Scallop was in my arms as I read the message. He was 6 months old. I melted to the ground.