Fatherless on Father's Day

When I say 'fatherless' it's not because mine isn't around any more in the sense that he's deceased. He isn't dead. Well, he might be. I wouldn't know - I haven't seen him since I was sixteen and when my grandfather on that side of the family passed away the first I knew of it was as a postscript in a Christmas card from my Nanna. My father was largely absent from when I was young enough to still have my age defined in months. Not that I didn't look forward to spending what little time with him I got to, and I have many fond and funny memories of it. I have many more less pleasant memories though.

My parents split up because my father had an affair. My mother tried hard not to speak negatively of him. My grandma, however, would often remind me of the plans she had for her large, wooden rolling pin should he ever show his face at her door...

My Dad let me down on so many occasions though, and I eventually came to realise that he was a really terrible father. There's a photograph of us together, taken when I was around nine months old. To look at it, too see the expression on his face as he looks at me, you would assume I'd just deposited a nice fresh turd in my nappy. Which wasn't the case. He was trying to read the paper. So was I. The photograph, taken by my mother, was clearly intended to show that I was a curious child. What it shows is that Dad just wanted to read the paper though, and I was getting in the way. When I won a place at a rather prestigious high school, he promised to not only help pay the fees but to send me on the school's famous foreign exchanges and trips abroad. The latter never materialised and he stopped paying his share eventually, leaving my mother to struggle financially and accrue significant debt just so I could finish my education. There were many times I'd stand in our front yard, anxiously awaiting his arrival, only to get a phone call some hours later to say he couldn't pick me up that weekend after all.

Some time in the early 2000s, I received a telephone call from Nanna, saying Dad had been trying to get in touch with me. Given that me and Mum hadn't moved or changed our telephone number, well, ever, I found this a little hard to believe. He never did get in touch. She sent us a letter with a photograph of Dad's wedding to his latest wife who, somewhat creeping, bore a startling resemblance to Mum on her wedding day... and that was the last I heard of him.

What is the role of a father? For mine it seems it was merely to fertilise an ovum. A good father doesn't even have to do that necessarily, as any father raising adopted children, or children born via sperm donor or a myriad other circumstances where there is no biological relationship between father and child would tell you. A father's role in child-rearing is the same as a mother's: to love, to nurture, to protect, to teach, to guide, to inspire. So, since my biological father abjectlly failed to do any of these things, today I give thanks to the men in my life who did: the grandfathers, the uncles (both my actual Uncle and all the men I call 'Uncle' who were really my cousin or not even a blood relative at all), the fathers of my friends, teachers, professors, co-workers, friends and various prominent figures who have all demonstrated the qualities a father should (not all of them are fathers, by the way) and have together proved that there's more to being a father than simply being the man you call 'Dad'.