Father’s Day approaching is bothering me so much more than usual this year. Faithful readers know I hate it. I’ve said so here and here. And probably other times I can’t remember.
Why is this year worse, you ask? Well, for one, last Christmas, we heard from a previously unknown (at least to me) first cousin, who kindly offered to send us some things of my father’s they had from sorting his belongings after his passing.
We said yes, and she sent the boxes. I think the items our cousin sent are important to my sisters, and I’m happy they have them. But I’m angry and hurt and dreading that damn day. Again. Because when I began looking at the box’s contents, there was not one photo of me, not one mention, nothing. I was erased.
So invisible me is getting anxious already. The ads are multiplying, the celebrations are being planned, and I don’t even think that I existed for my father. Or as I described him recently during a medical history “the sperm donor”.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Travels With Slippers 