I believe in my father

I believe in my father

Grace DeNisio, Sr. High Staff Writer

I believe in my father, but more importantly, I believe that two is better than one. 

 

From as long as I could remember, it was always just my mom and I. My mom has been a single mom for a year now, but for me it’s been seventeen years. I’m the first daughter, the first grand-daughter, first niece, oldest child, only sister, only daughter, but to my dad, what was I? I was never shown affection as a child, unless it was from my mother. I never realized as a child that my dad was the way he was, but as you age, things start to make more sense. My dad and I never got along when I was a kid. I was a brat. I was sensitive. I was high maintenance. Is this what I was to him? Is this all I was? I never remember my father being home when I was younger. I don’t remember seeing him much in my pre-teen years. And when he was around, I wasn’t. I never wanted to see him. Trying to escape being yelled at, criticized. I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel welcomed in my own home when he was around. People say kids can tell when something isn’t right, I was one of those kids, and I didn’t even know it then. His absence brought me discomfort, but him being there gave me a greater sense of irritation. 

 

I believe in my father, because I forgave him for what he has done. This past summer, after the worst two months of my life, he left. My father left. He left my mom. He left me. He left our home. A divorce. I watched him cry. He cried to me. Why would he cry to me? He cheated. For two years. I tried not to care for months, but after the constant arguing, the sound of my mom crying for those months. I knew he had to leave. After a while, I finally decided to see him. After everything he never did, everything he barely did for me, I helped him move into his new home. What will he do here? All alone? No family to come home from work to, as if he ever did that before. 

 

I believe in my father, because he can be better. I see him being better. Ten months. It only took him ten months to start over. He’s moved on from my mother, from me. He now has someone else, and she has two children. Two. Daughters. Two is better than one. Two daughters, as if he could take care of the one he already had. As if he wants to redo it. As if it’s too late to fix what he already damaged. I believe in second chances, because two is better than one, so my father gets a second chance. He gets a second chance at life, at family, at fatherhood. 

 

I believe in my father, but where’s my second chance?