Father's Day 2012

The man I call my father was not my biological father. I share DNA with a horrible man, an alcoholic, wife-beating child molester. My memories of this biological sire are fuzzy, for which I’m grateful. I have no wish to remember or honor the man who means little to me other than the sperm that brought Little Lainey Zygote into being.

The man I call my father married a woman with six unruly children ranging in ages from 18 to 4, three weeks after they met. This man did his best to love them and bring them into his heart as his own. And this man was good to my mother.

The man I call my father threatened my biological father with bodily harm the first time the sperm donor came to take me from my family. The second time, the man I call my father was away at work, and I was kidnapped. Later I was the center of a custody battle which the man I call my father willingly accepted the financial burden and fought as hard as my mother to get me back.

The man I call my father helped me learn to read before I was ever school-aged. He recognized my intelligence, and encouraged it. He was proud of the grades I made and always wanted to know what I didn’t understand when my grades weren’t up to snuff, instead of punishing me. He took me to the library and picked out children’s classics for me to read. He wanted all of us to be educated, and I can remember him saying once, “You may not ever have money, but you can have education and good manners.”  People still compliment me on my table manners to this day.

The man I call my father was a good man. But he was not a saint. He was very old fashioned in his opinions of how young ladies should behave, this being at the height of the Women’s Lib movement of the 70s. He was very strict with all of us, and unjustly stern with my brother. But again, he took on the financial responsibility, not only of raising us, but of the court costs of the adoption processes to adopt those six children who weren’t his. My oldest sister was already married and pregnant with her first child when he adopted those kids. She was afraid she would deliver before the papers were approved, because she wanted to put his name as her maiden name on the baby’s birth certificate. Another part of our family lore is that when they finally got me back from my biological father, I came home on my step-father’s birthday.

The man I call my father was unable to adopt me. The biological father would not allow it. And, unfortunately, the man I call my father was killed in a work accident just days before my 9^th birthday. But when I was 13, my mother had my name legally changed, and now I have the same last name as the man who I will always think of as my father.

I have often wondered how my life might have been different had he lived. I’ve grieved the loss of not knowing him as an adult. I’ve wondered how he might have advised me and steered me away from some of my bad decisions, especially with regards to the men I chose. Would he be proud of the strong, independent, educated woman I’ve become? Would he be disappointed that I chose not to give him grandchildren?

The man I call my father would be 87 if he’d lived. Probably a doddering old man now instead of the epic, giant of a hero my child’s mind remembers. But today I honor him and love him and miss him; all that he was, all I perceived him to be, and all he may have yet been.

The man I call my father was named Keith William Thomas, and I am proud that three of my nephews bear parts of his name. I look forward to learning who he is when I see him again when its my turn to go into the light. I look forward to his fatherly comfort and his guiding friendship.

No, he was not a saint, but he was a good man. The man I call my father was only my step-father and only in my life for a few short years. But he is my father and I am his daughter as surely as if it were his blood coursing through my veins.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.