When I was a child, my daddy was my daddy. I didn’t question why I had a different last name because his last name was long and hard to spell. He was from Iran. I thought I was Iranian too.
When I was about 8–I think that’s the age you make your First Communion–my mother had to turn in a form to my school in which the “Father” line needed a name for an official church document. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have mattered what she put on that line, but she didn’t want to lie but she also didn’t want me to be questioned, so she sat me down to talk. She closed the bedroom door and produced a picture from my baptism where a strange man was holding me. She explained how this man was really my father, but he left when I was 2. She told me how he was mean and he cheated on her while she was pregnant with me and let some other lady’s kid use my unopened baby blanket to sleep on their couch while he fucked her in their bed. How when she took him back, he threw her out of bed after the had sex, saying how he wanted to fuck her one last time. How he stole from my grandparents. How he gave my mom crabs.
I took it all in. Ok. I’m 8. Fine I guess. We’ll deal with these feelings again in my teenage years when my, now step-father I guess, begins to resent me or hate me or something and I start to think about why my real dad left. Because I’m a piece of shit, clearly. Who’d want to be my father? Does he ever think of me? Why would he. I wonder if I do this like him. I wonder if he’s where my inside feelings are coming from. So, like any girl with “daddy issues,” I had a ton of boyfriends and a ton of sex, none of it healthy, while I got yelled at by my mother for patterns repeated yet not understood. Sunrise, sunset.
I always thought about finding him one day or maybe he was looking for me! That wasn’t likely since my grandparents had never moved and he had once lived there. So, at 26 and with very little information on a $10 “Find Anyone” site, I found my paternal grandmother and in minutes, I was on the phone with her…bawling. I’d talk to my father later that day for the first time in my life and meet him a few months later at his home in South Carolina where he lived with most of a family I never knew.
It was the longest week of my life and I just wanted to go home.
All I could think of was how lucky I was.
I gave him a chance. I didn’t go in angry. I tried so hard. It was all I had ever thought about. But when he reeled off my grandparents address from memory or when I was audience to him yelling at his wife in front of the restaurant cashier for no reason, I hardened a bit. A bunch of other little things happened, lies exposed and such, that made me decide that, all abandoning your children aside, I don’t like him as a person.
And oh yeah, I have an older brother he left as well, a junior even! Three or 4 years older than me and lives in their home state of New Jersey. We started talking after the visit with dear ‘ol dad. Then he went to jail and started sending me letters, even asked for my picture, which I thought was weird. When he got out, he said he wanted to move to Florida and asked to move in with me. I said no. He started creeping me out a bit, but the clincher had to be when I was hard up for money and tried a cam site (a total of 3 times) and, a brother I’ve never met, told me how he watched me twice because he was “curious.” I told him that was incredibly inappropriate and he should have known that and how I was just so fucking done with all of them.