I never thought in a million years I would have a blog. But, in light of recent events, I believe writing a blog will be very therapeutic.
On August 29, 2014 my father died. I know some will think that is the reason for the title "Fatherless Child", however, that's not it. Actually, as long as I can remember, I have considered myself to be a fatherless child. As a young girl growing up, my father did not live in the home with me. To be honest, I never knew where he lived. I have a very fuzzy memory of my father visiting me when I was around three or four years old. I remember the pair of roller skates and a Tweety Bird t-shirt my father gave me during his visit. For years I held on to those gifts because that was all I had to remind me of my father. My father, or Willie James, as I referred to him, was a fable. I often heard legendary stories, but the man behind the stories never surfaced. The tales of my father where told by uncles, aunts, or cousins, never by my mother.
Once I became a teenager, I resented Willie James for not accepting the responsibility of being my father. All of my friends, and there were many, had their dads in their life. I was so angry, but I had to suppress my feelings because my mother remained silent when it came to my father's non-existence. Many times I wanted to reach out to my father, however, I feared he would reject me, so I just went on with my life.
As a young adult, many years ago, I finally got the courage to call Willie James. I asked him one question, "Why were you not in my life?" His answer stunned me. His only reply was "Ask your mother." All those years and he summed up my entire life with, "Ask your mother." Well, I did just that. I asked my mother. She was more stunned than I at his answer, although, it seemed we were stunned for totally different reasons. I was stunned because he had the audacity to place his irresponsibility on my mother. My mother, on the other hand, seemed to be stunned because the truth about her role in my father's absence was about to be exposed.
After the one and only phone call I made to my father, I never contacted him again. I always intended to call again to arrange a meeting, but life always got in the way. In fact, the week before he died I received his phone number from my mother. I was planning to call him the next weekend, but unfortunately he died.
Since my father's death I have met his other children, which are my siblings. While their stories about our father are nice to hear, they are just that, "their stories." I wish I had my own stories to tell. My father's death has also uncovered secrets about my mother. Soon, I will be having a long talk with my mother. I'm not sure who will be asking the questions. The fatherless woman who is mature and understands everyone makes mistakes, or the fatherless child who couldn't care less about the difficulties in life. Regardless of who asks, the first question to my mother will be, "Why did you have my father's phone number in August of 2014?"
