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A Letter To My Father

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I saw your face twice in my 47 years, but I only kind of remember one though.

That moment is a blur because in the 70s I thought you were just another man selling insurance or encyclopedias. Even though you said you were my father, all I wanted to do was go out and play. That’s what 7 year olds did.

I never questioned your existence or thought of you. Not until much later. My surrogate fathers were James Evans, Howard Cunningham and Ward Cleaver. I thought my mom was enough. She dressed, fed and disciplined me playing the mother and father of the family. With a strong hand she kept me from drugs, boys and babies because those were the worst things you could get into at that time.

BabyPam

I became a strong woman. Well the exterior was strong. The interior cracked a little more with my growing need to have you in my life. I never showed that part though. I convinced myself that I didn’t need a daddy in my life, but as I got older I needed the validation that only a daddy could give. I needed you to tell me that I could be anyone and do anything I put my mind to. I wanted to sit on your lap and have you tell me I was beautiful. Instead, I had to realize those truths for myself. I still struggle with some of them though.

 

Sometimes I don’t feel beautiful.

Sometimes I think my goals won’t be achieved. I know none of that is true, but the doubt makes me feel vulnerable. I needed you to calm my fears and chase the monsters of life that hide under the bed away; the monsters of doubt, failure and bad relationships. I needed you to wipe my tears when my heart got broken.

I have often wondered why I wasn’t enough. Why you didn’t love me like my brothers and sisters that lived in your home? As a teen, I didn’t think of these things. As an adult, I can’t help but wonder what they did that I didn’t. It’s foolish to think that a baby could bring about such disinterest, but somehow, I thought baby Pam did. Sometimes when I’m in the neighborhood, I drive past the church you pastored and try to imagine you there.

You can’t give me the answers I need and if you were alive would you? One day I might seek out my siblings; talk with them and find out who you were. I’m not quite sure if I want to yet.

For now I will just wish you a Happy Father’s Day. I hope wherever you are in the afterlife, you are proud of me and I forgive you.

4 Comments

  1. Dana James Mwangi

    June 18, 2016 at 2:56 pm

    Pam, this was SO moving. This is one of the purest examples forgiveness and compassion that I’ve ever witnessed. Keep inspiring all of us!

    • Pam Williams

      June 18, 2016 at 7:57 pm

      Thank you Dana! It is a step in the direction of healing.

  2. Eboni D Young

    June 19, 2016 at 6:17 am

    Wow, I myself have a very similar beginning. I have a twin brother as well but we’ve never meet and I have only seen baby pictures. But my “ending” was a bit different,i was given up by my birth mother to and Aunt and uncle who raised me as their own I’ve never told my story to afraid and ashamed of what people may think of me. I was raised in a home full of love laughter and life,but somehow always felt as if I didn’t belong. When at the age of 18 I found out why. My Mom who Id known as my mom was really My Aunt and the Aunt that had given me up was really my mom. I spoke to my biological father once and was told that he wasn’t my father and my biological mom was lying. but I too have had to learn to forgive and Let go of the bitterness I’ve held for so long! Thank you so much for sharing your experience and story.

    Eboni Young

    • Pam Williams

      June 19, 2016 at 4:22 pm

      Eboni,

      Thank you so much for sharing your story and thank you for reading. Your story is the stuff movies are made from. I am glad that your Aunt could offer you the love and laughter that a child so needs. God bless you and your family. I pray that you find peace and in your own time forgiveness and healing. I have found that the forgiveness that we offer is never for the other person, but for ourselves. Be blessed.

      p.

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