The Book of Plot Twists

The Man I (should have) Called Dad

I spent the majority of my adult life in search of my father. The man who was supposed to take me on Saturday morning fishing trips and teach me how to drive was absent for everything from my first steps to my first legal drinking binge. My mother always told me that he wanted to be here, but if that was true, why wasn't he? Surely he could have found a way.
I looked everywhere. I hunted down his friends, family, and even former bosses. No one knew anything or, if they did, they wouldn't tell me. It was really aggravating, you know? Life wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to have two parents: a mom that cooks delicious cookies for me and my friends, and a dad that rented us R-rated movies and said "don't tell Mom."

The hardest thing was watching my friends get in the back seat of their parents' minivan. For them, the passenger seat was never empty. For me, it was never filled. They hated being in the back, but I would have killed to have to sit there. Then there were the birthday parties. Man, those were the worst. All my friends would have both of their parents there to present them with their new electric scooters and cars in front of everyone who only dreamed about getting them. Me? I didn't have a dad, which means I didn't have enough money to even imagine acquiring those things.
I learned to live with it eventually, but there was always a part of me that wondered why. Why hasn't he been there? What kind of father doesn't want to see their kids grow up? What kind of father doesn't want to be there to encourage his child? What kind of father would be man enough to have sex, but not man enough to stay when he suffered the consequences? It shames me to think that mine was that kind of father.

These days, I don't actively search for him. I always wonder about where he is, who he is, even, but he isn't constantly occupying my thoughts. Or, at least he wasn't. Not until recently.

It was Thanksgiving. I was sitting at the table with my two older cousins, my baby nephew and his mother (his dad was also not in the picture and I wasn't on good terms with my "sister"), my grandmother, and my aunt whose husband left her two years ago. My mother came out to the living room where we were sitting (our tiny two-bedroom apartment had no room for a dinning room) and plopped a steaming bowl of delicious, slaved-over, hand-made mashed potatoes on the coffee table. It was the final ingredient to our amazing annual feast.

"Who wants to give the blessing this year?" Mom asked. Everyone glanced awkwardly at each other, no one wanting to be the one to speak out. Sighing, my mother grabbed mine and my nephew's mother's hand and began to pray.

"Dear Lord Jesus," she began, "I thank you for what you did on the cross and I thank you for the freedom that you have allowed us to have. We are so grateful to live in a country where we can speak freely and worship how we please. Lord, please bless this food that we are about to receive and bless the hands that prepared it. Thank you for allowing us to be with our family once again on this joyous occasion-even if the fathers could not join us. Amen."

"Amen," everyone else murmured in unison before attacking the assorted bowls and plates in front of us.

Justin—my nephew—anxiously waited for his mother to serve him his tiny portion of turkey while Jessica—my eldest cousin—yelled at her younger sister Sharon for taking too much macaroni.

I did nothing. I didn't reach for food and I didn't thank my mother or the other ladies for the food. Every year, the Thanksgiving prayer was the same. Except, no one had ever added that last part. The father part.

I was always closest to my Aunt Christina. I only ever saw her around the holidays, which is why she was always the one I confided in. In fact, I wouldn't have ever actually gotten around to searching for my dead-beat dad if it weren't for her influence. She was disgusted with how he wasn't around.

I nudged her and asked what was up with the prayer. She whispered in my ear that she couldn't talk about it.

"Why not?"