Thicker Than Blood

For the first time in many years, I thought about my dad on Father's Day.

It was mostly, I think, because I saw many posts on social media of people showing old photos of their own dads, sharing special memories with the man who left a lasting, loving impression. Many of the messages that I read indicated that the father in question was no longer with them, and how they were dearly and fondly missed.

I don't really miss my dad.

My dad left my mother, my sisters, and me when I was five years old. My memories back then were of a man who believed that children should be seen and not heard, that he was the one to lay down the law for the entire family, and if my mother didn't like it, he would point to the door.

Eventually, she showed him to the door.

I remember our neighbours, a couple of doors over, who befriended my mom when we first moved into our Parkwood Hills townhouse, in 1968. My mom would often go over to visit Bernice for tea and they would chat while my sister, Holly, and I played outside with our friends. Bernice and her husband Jack would also spend time with us if my mom had to run errands and when she was busy with our newborn sister, Jen.

Bernice even taught me how to play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on their upright piano.

Their son, Greg, also took an interest in us, even though he was finishing university and tinkering with his automobiles (I still remember his blue Volvo PV 544). Greg taught me how to catch a baseball (he gave me my first glove) and loved building model airplanes with me. When I came home from school, one day, scuffed up from being in a fight, he gave me boxing gloves and taught me some moves so that the next time someone picked on me, I'd be able to hold my own.

Some time after my mother kicked my dad out of the house, she and Greg started seeing one another. Later, he would recall that never in his life, in his mid twenties, had he imagined himself with three kids. But he loved kids, knew that he wanted to be a father, and never looked back.

Meanwhile, my dad was absent so many times that one time, when he showed up on our doorstep, I didn't know who he was right away. He rarely paid child support, would promise to visit my sisters and me but then not show up, and when he did spend time with us, he would bring us to his friends' houses, only to ignore us.

I always called my dad Dad. But even though I've always called Greg by his name, when I spoke about my father with my friends, they knew who I was talking about.

My dad has been gone, for good, for nearly 21 years and it really surprised me that I thought about him yesterday. Because when it comes to Father's Day, there's only one person with whom I've ever celebrated it.

The only father who's ever been there.