Growing up Fatherless Proved to be a Blessing in Disguise
Ioften tell my mom that my dad leaving was the best thing to ever happen to us.
She thinks I say it to console her. But truer words rarely cross my mouth.
What good would’ve come from a deserter who goes AWOL on a loving wife and 2 doe-eyed sons? A recreational sadist who kidnaps his own son to blackmail the mother? A stone-hearted coward who texts, “Live your own life.” when his thrilled teenage son hunts him down on Facebook?
Taking after my father, I’d have become cold, calculating, and cowardly.
But his absence gifted me freedom. Freedom from ill influence, paternal expectations, and restraints — and the freedom to fill his void with worthy father figures:
My 70-year-old grandpa who’d run up the stairs with a 25kg rice sack hoisted on his shoulder. Aanghel with his sage-like wisdom. Kris Sturmey and his unrelenting ambition. The brutally vulnerable Hamza. God-fearing David Hammond. And many more.
Rough were the years before I found my father figures.
I’d stood mute as a bully smashed my brand-new water bottle to smithereens. Slinking in library alcoves, I feared socializing. I hid my jiggly love handles in shame at the pool. Dreading eye contact with girls, I dreamt of being “average.”
With my father figures came the jigsaw pieces to assemble myself.
I built a strong and aesthetic physique. Learned how to make friends everywhere I go. Found the love of my life after futile serial dating. Became anything but average.
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