In just over two weeks,
it will be my birthday.
I will be 26.

This is the one day I allow myself to be selfish.

This year it falls on Father’s day.
It has always felt odd when this happened.
A cold spot in my chest.
This day should be for me.
A celebration of me.
Instead of a reminder,
of his absence.

Pushing away thoughts of him.
I forced myself to have fun.
A trip to the city.
Train ride to the zoo.
Anything to distract me,
from his looming shadow.
From the emptiness.

Still, I always hoped he’d think of me.

Just over two weeks ago,
my father died.
He was 45.

Author’s Note:
I wrote this a couple years ago. Looking back on it I feel guilt having written it.

Yes, my biological father wasn’t there as I grew up. He had his reasons for not being there. Just as I had my reasons for not opening the door when he finally came knocking.

He may have not been a father to me, but it seems he did right in his final years. I’m grateful for that. I’m proud of him for that.

The reason I decided to post this here is to acknowledge my feelings I had. It was okay to be selfish then. Now it’s time to move on.

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