When I was tiny I used to get cards from my dad for every single holiday. His checks were on time. And I always thought that my dad loved me, because my mother said so and his cards said so. Dad had beautiful cursive handwriting.
And one day the checks started coming late or not at all. And they were different. Not animals, just plain. And they came without cards. I thought my dad had stopped loving me. But he hadn’t. He had never loved me. It’s a funny thing though. His wife, who had never seen me, barely spoken with me, never held me as a baby and cooed over my tiny little feet, loved me. But I guess, like my mother, she realized dad would never love her right, because I guess he can’t. And she was gone.
All my life I wondered about her. I think it is amazing to love someone so much that you want them to look like the kind of man you wish they could be. A doting father. A generous giver. To care so much about a man that you can pour out love in gifts and letters to some child that didn’t even occupy his thoughts. I’m glad that she escaped. I’d gladly trade all the gifts, cards, and affection for the hope that she is off somewhere being loved by a genuine soul.
Love is an amazing thing.