I Am Not My Fathers Story

 

 The First Man I Ever Loved—And What He Never Gave Me”

They say a father is a daughter’s first mirror of love. If that’s true, then mine was a cracked one.

Not broken—just… incomplete.

My dad wasn’t cruel. He didn’t hit or yell or leave us starving. But he also didn’t see me. Not really.

He was there—until he wasn’t. Present in body, absent in spirit. The only time I truly had his attention was when I sat in a parked car outside a bar, waiting for him to come out. He’d hand me snacks and tell me to wait. And I did. For hours. For years. Maybe I’m still waiting.

I grew up without softness from him. Without being told I’m beautiful, capable, worthy. And yet—he provided in his own way. Gifts, support, things that came with an unspoken price: eternal gratitude. I was to say thank you, never ask for more.

And then I went out into the world… and I chose men who felt familiar.

Unavailable. Emotionally distant. Men I had to prove myself to. Men I had to earn love from.

Because that’s what I believed love was—something hard-won, never freely given.

As I grew older, our relationship didn’t soften—it frayed.

His mind, once sharp and stubborn, began to slip. His memory faded, but his bitterness remained. We fought. Not with fists, but with silence, with accusations left hanging in the air. I had to take his car keys after too many accidents. He never forgave me for that. Not once.

And still—I showed up. I cared for him.

Not because he earned it, but because I’m me.

Because somewhere, deep down, I still wanted his approval.

I wanted him to say, “I’m proud of you.”

He never did.

In the last weeks of his life, he declined fast. A fall, a wound, and then a quiet slipping away.

I was there. I held space. I grieved… but not just for his death.

I grieved the father I never had.

The words I never heard.

The love that never came in the shape I needed.

And now, months later, I look back and understand:

So many of my choices in men were simply echoes of that first blueprint.

Men who drank too much.

Men who left me emotionally starving but tossed me crumbs and expected gratitude.

Men I had to wait for, chase after, prove myself to.

Men I felt grateful for, even when they made me small.

It wasn’t love. It was familiarity.

And that’s a dangerous thing to confuse.

But here’s what I’m learning now—slowly, tenderly:

I can rewrite the script. I can stop waiting in cars outside bars.

I can stop mistaking absence for mystery.

I can stop calling struggle “love.”

I’m not angry anymore.

I’m not waiting anymore.

I bless the little girl who sat in that car. I tell her: You deserved more. And it was never your fault.

I thank the woman who showed up for a father who couldn’t give back. She did the hard thing. The right thing.

But now, I choose different.

I am not building altars to absent men anymore.

I am not repeating old patterns and calling it destiny.

I am rewriting the story—starting with me.

Because a father’s love may shape a daughter’s beginning…

But it doesn’t get to write her ending.

Leave a comment if you feel moved, or simply sit with me in quiet.

If you’d like to walk this road with me, follow Nomadic Grandmother for new stories.

— x Elsabe