I Hate Father’s Day

Not surprising, right?  Because, as you may recall, I hate Mother’s Day.   But now that the Father’s Day ads have become overwhelming, I’m reminded why I hate this holiday so much, much more.  And for such different reasons.  

See, my father left.  I never knew him at all, and in the only photos I have with him, I’m less than a year old.  He also put up a huge battle against paying child support, including hiding out of state for many years (after a judge in Florida said “if I see you here again, bring your toothbrush”), and not marrying his longtime girlfriend so we couldn’t try to find him that way.  Thankfully, by the time I was in high school, Hallmark had caught up with reality and sold Father’s Day cards for mothers.  Loved that!   (Digression:  I’m not saying there weren’t some great men in my life – my uncles were the best, as was my childhood priest.   But Father’s Day…meh.)

Back to the money, though.  Once my paternal grandmother passed (and my one meeting with her is a whole story in itself, along with the one time I saw (and I do mean only “saw”) my father as a pre-teen), and he moved into the family home back in Charleston, my mother got the order of support enforced.  He paid – until we lost my mother – and then he stopped.  At that point, I was the only one who though pursuing it was worth it, and when he finally died, the only one who thought we should pursue the estate.  

I didn’t, though.  It seemed too upsetting for the rest of my family.

I heard many different reasons over the years for why my father left – not from my mother, who never said a word against him, amazingly, until I was old enough to push her about the money – but from various other family members.  When I was very young – maybe four or five – I overheard the following at a party:  “Nick left because Flora wasn’t a boy.”   I was also told, to my face, in a moment whose cruelty I hope is never matched, that he left because he thought I wasn’t his.  (Another digression: As much as I could almost be a twin to my mother, and to her mother, I have certain physical characteristics that are only recognizable as my father’s.  My ears, for example.) 

And no, I don’t have some profound point I’m making here.  Just that I hate Father’s Day.

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4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: I Hate Father’s Day: Part Two | Travels With Slippers, or The Life of A Single Woman Who Prefers It That Way
  2. Suzanne
    May 20, 2014 @ 17:30:33

    Ugh. No wonder you hate Father’s Day. Whoever said your father left because you weren’t a boy, and because he thought you weren’t his, was hateful. What a terrible thing to say where a child might hear it.

    Reply

  3. Trackback: Happy Father’s Day | Travels With Slippers, or The Life of A Single Woman Who Prefers It That Way
  4. Trackback: Invisible Girl | Travels With Slippers, or The Life of A Single Woman Who Prefers It That Way

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