It was only a few months,
after my mom passed away.
I received an invitation.
It was to attend,
the 70th birthday,
of my 3rd dad.
I hadn’t see him in over 20 years.
Even then,
it was a brief meeting.

They divorced,
when I was probably…
10 or 11.
I think their relationship lasted,
about 7 years.
I was around 3 or 4,
when they met.
He became my full-time dad.
During that time,
I saw him more,
than my own dad.
I lived full time with my mom,
and only spent,
every other weekend,
at my dad’s house.

Even when they divorced,
in my mind,
he was still,
one of my dads.
The divorce,
didn’t erase the love,
the affection,
I felt for him as a father.
Like always,
when my mom left someone,
that meant I also left them behind…
at least physically.
I was a child,
I went,
where I was told to go.

The invitation to the birthday party,
soon after my mom’s death,
peaked a certain kind of interest in me.
It spoke to that empty,
yearning space…
where the love of a parent,
was supposed to be,
but I often found empty.
It was currently…
raw.

When I thought about him,
I still felt the affection for a father.
Time was frozen…
I just felt,
what I had felt,
when I was that little girl.
Love,
admiration,
for a father.

He watched late night tv shows with me,
taught me table manners.
He provided a comfortable home,
with luxuries like a swimming pool.
He gave me new experiences,
like raising a steer to slaughter.
He gave me a horse to ride.
Chickens to collect eggs from.
Bunnies who were always multiplying.

In my mind,
he was still that dad.

The invitation was presented to me,
in a way,
that made me feel special.
“He would be so excited to have me there,
it would be a surprise!”
The idea,
of being a surprise,
at this significant family gathering,
that I hadn’t been a part of,
for over 30 years,
was a little intimidating.
I didn’t really like the idea,
of being the surprise.

I had no idea,
how he would react…
to me.
I didn’t know,
what he might say…
about my mom.

I knew,
I would be extra sensitive.
I expressed my concerns.
I was assured,
he would be warned ahead of time…
of my sensitivity.
That meant,
he would also know,
I was coming.
He wouldn’t be caught off guard.
When I agreed to attend,
I left it open,
to back out at the last minute,
if I was having a hard day.

The day came.
I debated.
Back and forth.
In my head.
I made the decision.
I would go.
I knew if I didn’t,
I would always wonder.
I chose,
to swallow my fear,
my anxiety.

I
went
all
by
myself.

On the drive there,
I started to feel anxious.
I kept repeating to myself,
“Be brave, be brave, be brave.”
I reminded myself,
“You have done hard things before, be brave.”
Even when I felt that twinge,
to turn around,
drive back home…

I
was
brave.

I found the neighborhood,
drove up to the security gate,
pushed the call button.
“Hello?”
“It’s Peggy.”
The gate opened.
They knew I was there.
No turning back now.

I parked my car,
put on the bravest face,
that a little girl could muster.
I stood tall,
was greeted outside,
by the person who had invited me.
There were several other people,
outside the door,
I was introduced,
then brought inside.

The door entered into a big room.
It extended even further,
to include a formal dining area.
It was a vast,
open space.
I stood there,
courageous smile,
saying hello,
to a couple of guests.
The immediate room where I was standing,
was void of people.
The space wasn’t cluttered with things.
It was just open…
all around me.

My father was brought to stand,
about ten feet in front of me.
He looked at me with a smile,
a little chuckle…
trying to figure out who I was.
I could see,
there was a glimmer,
of recognition in his eyes…
but he couldn’t quite place me…
and then he did,
“Peggy? Is that you? It is you…”
as full realization,
came to his expression.

In the time he was figuring out who I was,
horror had filled my mind,
realizing,
he had no idea I was coming.
Every insecurity,
that a person can feel,
about not being accepted,
cared about,
recognized…
significant,
came to my mind.
There was a moment,
when I thought he would have to be told…
who I was.

I was on display.
Here she is!
Long,
lost,
daughter,
of the ex-wife.
Look at her.

The house was full,
of close relatives.
Most of which,
had known me,
as that little girl.
It was a beautiful family.
They were laughing,
drinking,
telling stories.

A slide show,
of old photographs,
from his life,
streamed on the tv.
The pictures…
memories flooded my body.
I was looking at my family,
that existed,
when I was that little girl.
A family,
that had moved on,
moved forward,
without me.
It stung.

I was introduced to his “new” wife ,
that he married after my mom.
Then his “new” daughter,
who had replaced me,
taken the spot in his heart,
where I once lived.

It felt like that time,
when I had been playing Three Flies Up,
in front of our house,
with my 3 brothers.
The football,
was coming straight for me.
I caught it,
with both arms,
hugged it into my body,
then fell to the ground…
unable to take in air.

Be strong.
Be brave.
You are strong.
You are brave.
You have come through so much.
You can do this.

“This is Peggy. She’s the daughter of my ex-wife, from 30 plus years ago.
You remember Peggy, don’t you?”

He was uncomfortable,
I could feel it.
I didn’t blame him.
He had to explain.
There wasn’t a simple way to say it.
It took a lot of words.
The scenario was repeated,
over
over
over…
again,
as I was introduced to guests.

Repetition of the recounting,
refuted my recollection.
The words he wrote,
from his mouth,
poisoned my reflection.

It was ridiculous,
that I was there.
It was foolish,
to think I was still his daughter.
Absurd.

It had been thirty years,
since I had been his daughter.
Through his adult eyes,
It was a blink.
Through my young hopeful ones,
it was infinite.

It may have been in my own mind…
I could feel the self-contained conversations,
going on inside of people’s heads…

“Why did she come?”
“Doesn’t she already have a dad of her own?”
“He’s not even her real dad.”
“She must not have a dad that loves her.”
“She must be lonely.”
“This is so awkward.”
“How long is she going to stay?”

I endured two hours.
Two hours, pretending I belonged there.
Two hours, watching the family, be a family without me.
Two hours, of faking feeling right at home.
Two hours, bluffing that I was part of the family.
Two hours, seeing pictures of my step-brother,
who was my hero,
who I had adored,
but never got to say goodbye to… when he died.
Two hours, of not knowing where to stand.
Two hours, of not knowing who to talk to.
Two hours, of faking being interested,
in whatever conversation,
was going on next to me.
Two hours, of enduring the feeling,
of wanting to run out the door and just drive… forever.
Two hours, of fending off the pain of realization.
My little girl memories,
of being a loved daughter,
were only mine.
Now they were shattered.
Two hours, of holding my disillusionment inside.

As I drove home,
I heaved the sorrow from my gut.
My memories were stained,
they were changed.
I mourned.

No, I wouldn’t change the decision I made to go that day. I have no regrets. I look at it and see the strength God has placed within me. It is His strength. I can face all things that He needs me to face. He has made me resilient. I am grateful. I hope that through seeing the strength He has placed in me, you will know He has also placed it within you. It is there for you to grasp.

I know everyone has a story of strength and bravery… please share yours in the comments if you feel prompted to do so. I would love to read it.

~Peggy