I hate my father.
I finally met a boy, who survived a shotgun cleaning talk and endured whatever else my father could throw at him in order to make sure that he respected me and loved me for who I was as a person, and not because of my looks. I finally met a boy who could make my heart race, not with actions of living in the moment but because of the time that we spend together. All those other boys who my father protected me from had gotten girls pregnant before they even graduated high school. Some of them tried to be good fathers, but most of them ran away from their responsibilities. This boy is different. He even earned my father’s approval to ask me to marry him.
But who will walk me down the aisle? Who will give me away at my own wedding? Who will be the last man to hold mine before I become Mrs. Banks-Williams? I can’t ask my biological father to do it because I don’t even know who he is. I’m certainly not going to ask my Mom’s boyfriend, or whatever he is, to do it because the mere thought of being that close to him makes me vomit. No, my father is supposed to hand me over to my fiancé.
My father raised me like his very own daughter. He loved me as if I was his own flesh and blood. He made me feel loved, and provided for me all the things a child could ever way. He forgave my slut of a mom because he loved her and truly believed that she was sorry, when she was nothing but a cheating whore. He taught me the difference between love and lust. He taught me that love should be unconditional, but that it should also be two ways. He taught me that you should want to do all that you can for the person that you love, but as long as there is the same kind of love in return.
My father also taught me the difference between living and having a life. Living in the moment lasts but a few seconds in time. It’s forgotten before you know it. Having a life, especially with someone you love, lasts a lifetime.
My father was a wimp and a cuckold, according to some of the people in the community, but he was more of a man than any of Mom’s lovers. Tell me of a man who has the strength to accept that his daughter is not his own flesh and blood, but raise her and love her like she’s his only angel? Well, that man is my father.
I hate my father because he died before I could tell him that I love him with all my heart, and I will forever be grateful to him for the things that he taught me. And if my fiancé can’t deal with the fact that I want to hyphenate my name so that everyone will know that I am my father’s daughter first and foremost, then he doesn’t know me and doesn’t deserve me.