Biological Family

The Littles asked me about "Dave" today. Dave, my biological father. They know a lot about his parents, Grams and Pa. I wish they could've met my grandpa; I wish they remembered my grandma. I am not particularly upset that they don't remember Dave.

Maybe you think this makes me sound heartless. If you do, feel free to stop reading. Maybe you understand, if only a little. If you do, please keep reading.

My parents were divorced when I was an infant. I explained to Ben and Becca today that I don't remember EVER living with Dave. I know I did once, as a tiny infant, but I certainly have no memories of it. I have memories of visiting with him throughout my life--at his home or my grandparents' home--but never really feeling the same way that I feel about my Dad.

Throughout my life, Dave and I had a roller coaster relationship. At times, I would try very hard to keep in touch with him, to make a relationship with him, to act in ways that would make me feel like he actually liked me. At other times, I really believe he tried hard to create a bond and make our relationship work. But, it was always a strained thing, a large effort for both of us, and I'm not sure I even one time acted like my real, actual self around him. I accept some of the blame for this, and I hope he would, too.

In the end, as I told The Littles today, Dave hurt me too much for me to repair our relationship. At the time, my grandmother had recently passed away, and I began to see that she was the glue that had always held us together. If I'd ever thought about ending any contact with Dave, I would remember that it would mean I'd have no way to know what was going on with Grams, and I just couldn't do it. But, once she was gone, I feel like our true feelings came out. He hurt me, and I was finally unwilling to excuse it and move forward.

My priest at the time gave a sermon on forgiveness, and it caused me a lot of strife. Was I being a true Christian? Should I keep trying and trying to make this relationship work? Fortunately, I talked to my priest about it, and he helped me to understand the difference between forgiveness and being a doormat. I could forgive Dave for what he had done, but it didn't mean I had to keep going back for more. It was okay to let the anger go, but not continue allowing him to hurt me.

My current priest has given a sermon saying the exact same thing. It's been validating and comforting. It is still hard to explain to an 8- and 10-year-old why we don't have contact with someone who is related to them and is still alive. Did he hit me? Did he yell at me? No. Did he hit or yell at them? No. Then why wouldn't we see him anymore?

The way Dave hurt me the most, and my mother the most, was in not truly seeing me, and not seeing her. I remember being places with him and he would say, "This is my daughter, Laura. She's on the Dean's List at Western" or fill in some other accomplishment. I feel like, right now, he would tell people I write an article for the local newspaper. In my head, I would think, "What does that have to do with you?" My mom and dad were the ones who made sure I got to school every day. They were the ones who went to parent-teacher conferences. They were the ones who helped me with homework (My dad would, of course, bring up a project we did together on the Appalachian Mountains when I was in fourth grade. We got an A. He was super proud of us. Lol.) They grounded me and spanked me and lectured me, all when needed. They congratulated me and encouraged me and celebrated me, all when needed. They knew me as a smart, strong-headed, smart-mouthed kid. They know me as a smart, strong-headed, smart-mouthed wife/mother/teacher who puts her family above everything else in this world. Dave did not see that.

The final straw was that Dave told lies about me. He told his family that I wanted his mother's money. He told me one thing for years, and told them something else entirely. Then, when I acted confused, he made me look like a gold-digger.

I didn't care about my grandmother's money. I wanted every cent spent on her happiness, since I certainly never had to milk the cows or feed the calves or scoop manure or drive a tractor or any of the millions of other chores she and Pa performed daily as dairy farmers. It was never my money. When my grandma wanted to move into senior housing, I wanted her to use her money to live in a palace. When my grandma bought a bright blue Ford Fiesta "because it was cute," I said "Good for you!" When she was in a nursing room and she wanted a single room, I went to the front desk and said, "She wants a single room. Do it."  The only thing I wanted when my grandmother passed away was the necklace I saw her wear daily, because it was a piece of her. I also wanted her wedding rings, because I wanted to give them to my daughters and I didn't want them to be sold, not because I wanted to sell them. I never got them, though. What I got was accusatory emails about how I was selfish in expecting the money Dave had said for years I would inherit when my grandmother passed away. Apparently, he had only told me that, not anyone else in his family.

There's a lot of he said/she said. It's not even anything I care to think about anymore. It's irrelevant to my life now. Except for when my children ask why they don't know him. Why they don't know what he looks like. Why they don't remember him at all.

Here's how I handled it. I tried to find a photo of him, but all of our photo albums are packed into a closet. I finally found one on Facebook, and showed them the photo. Then I told them about what Fr. Greg had told me, that forgiving someone is not the same as letting someone continue to hurt you. And we talked about my dad, how he is my DAD, not my "step-dad," and he is their grandfather, and that's all they really need to worry about. I hope my explanation kept the thought, "Why doesn't he want to see us?" out of their minds. I spent 41 years thinking that. That's more than enough wasted anxiety on a situation I could never change.