A Fatherless Son

I am a fatherless son. Thus, I often question with some uncertainty how my father/son, father/daughter relationships are as seen through their eyes. I am an old man, and the reason for this concern is driven by pain. I am a son and a father, yet I have never been the son of a father—only a mother, as my father died before a single memory anchored within my mind. Sadly, my mother, with an overabundance of criticism, was incapable of outward signs of love or affection, meaning no hugs, kisses, or the words “I’m proud of you” or “I love you.”

“They simply must know and be secure in the certain knowledge that I could not love them more or be prouder of them.”

Being a son with no father presents a handicap—no model. I cannot count the times I day-dreamed about having a dad, fishing, talking, sharing, and being loved by a dad. Though old, I still have dreams of what it might feel like to have my “Dad” squeeze me in affection, hear him say he’s proud of me, he loves me, or go to him when I need a best friend; I shall never know the honor of feeling a father’s love.

A mother and a father are very different critters, and neither can replace or fill the gap of the other. Femininity and masculinity are very different archetypes, rendering attitudes, perspectives, beliefs, and ideal quite different. One after another, lessons, traits, attitudes, trust, understanding, and our thought process are molded by our parents. One hopes more of the positive abounds—but one can’t escape the negative. Perhaps we learn more by how we deal with the negative than the positive. The positive and happy sides of life are very easy, yet because the negatives carry more weight, we are forced to pay more attention to them. As a parent, we have a great deal of responsibility to our children to attend properly with the negative—for we are teaching them.

I can only wonder what talking with my father would have been like. I believe I would have looked at him knowing he had a lifetime of experience, he was sharing truth about life, was doing his best to share his love for me. I don’t think I would have questioned his perspective but would have heard and listened to his wisdom—but I have no experience there.

I evaluate at my childhood and see clearly I was well aware I didn't know very much about anything. I didn't question my lack of knowledge; it was a given. The problem was I had no one teaching me about life, no one to query or seek advice from, no one to share my concerns with, hug me, and no one saying, “I love you.” It seems so unusual today to look back and have not one bit of childhood experience with serious discussion from a parent. My experience with differences was simply acceptance. How could I question my mother, the woman I relied on, over something as trivial as a problem, a request, or a wish? It never crossed my mind to question, complain, or retreat. I simply accepted what the person called “mom” said; my mother’s way was the only way.

Though old, my mind doesn’t want to accept my age because I don’t “think” old, and even though my body feels my age it does not control my thoughts. My son is an adult, and surely his way of thinking is in part the result of being raised by me alone as a single parent, and the relationship we molded together. I look into his person and character, and I see so much of his father, which gives me pride, yet too I see his individual character, his unique personality and goodness—which also makes me proud. I imagine he may have the same questions I have, only regarding not having a mother in his rearing, for he and I were along since he was in diapers. Perhaps it is every father’s curse to worry about what his son and daughter truly think of him, for it certainly is mine.

I didn’t raise my daughter, and sadly we were estranged for many years. Thankfully we reunited and a powerful bond of love quickly developed, yet she lacks memories of her father when she was a child thus lacks an early love for her father. I love my two children beyond measure; they are so very much a part of me and never far from the surface of my thought. I want only to have earned true pride and love in my son and daughter’s eyes.

Perhaps I worry about how much I am loved by my children because I have no experience with being loved by my mother. One simply cannot see, hear, feel, and live with only criticism and unworthiness from their mother as a child and adult and somehow dredge from that abyss some morsel of love for her, it is simply unreasonable. And having no father’s love only added to the abyss of childhood love for it was nonexistent.

Perhaps this is why I long for reminders from my children of their love and pride for their father, proof that my worry and question are unfounded and downright stupid; yet I own that insecurity. Where I stand in the grand scheme of being a “Father” is not always clear to me even though I have no reason to worry. I have wondrous signs, and my hope is perhaps I’m fortunate enough to be near to top. If I am mediocre then I’d prefer not to know, for the innocence of ignorance in that case would be a blessing.

Because I worry about their true vision of their father I cannot let rest upon their shoulders a single ounce of worry about their vision of their father’s love for them. What I never heard once from my mom, is continually declared from their father: I cannot be as my mother. My history is surely the cause of my need to remind them in written and spoken words of my admiration, pride, and love for them as the honorable son and daughter they are. So, until I can no longer write, no longer think, no longer speak, or no longer remember, I shall continue to tell them in every way possible and as often as I can of their father’s love and pride for them. They simply must know and be secure in the certain knowledge that I could not love them more or be prouder of them. Though “I love you” may be very repetitious, so be it, for the risk of my children wondering about the truth of my love for them is something I cannot live with and refuse to die with. They will continue to hear those three word as often as possible, for my love for them grows each time I repeat those three wondrous words, and I shall be silenced only when my heart no longer beats. Kimberly and Tim, if you are reading this—I LOVE YOU. Dad