Beginnings · The People Who Raised Me
Date: 2 April 2026
I made my father up. For years. I couldn’t stand the empty space where he should’ve been, so I filled it in myself. My version of him was kind and gentle. He showed up when he said he would. He quoted Plato at you while he flipped pancakes. He waxed poetic about my mother’s laugh in fat love letters. I built him out of nothing, which was exactly what he’d given me to work with. The handful of things my mother did tell me about him turned out to be made up. I wanted to look him in the eye and ask the only question that counts: were you ever going to come save me?
Date: 2 April 2026
His absence. The sting of it branded a vow into me: no child of mine was ever going to be left guessing where I was. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the opposite of him, which means being there for my son. Compulsively. What I still don’t know is if I can ever be whole, no matter how often I convince myself that I will never do the same thing. I will do everything I can to be present for my son, but I will probably never be whole, and that is OK.
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