The foot of space behind the brown, leather couch was my safe space.  Being crammed against the wall with hardly any room to move, I grabbed blankets and bottles for my sister, and we sat back there for what seemed like hours upon hours.  At four years old, I was sitting behind the couch, holding my baby sister in my arms hoping she would not cry, as my parents were fighting.  Their words were so deafening as they threw lampshades and plates at one another.  The fights felt never-ending.  Day in and day out, they argued and became violent with one another. 

Unfortunately, I know exactly who my father is, and even though, I have a father, I have never actually had a dad in my life.  I yearned to be a daddy’s little girl growing up despite the fact that I never carried more than a five-minute conversation with him, which was usually, “Did you feed the animals and clean their pens yet?”  As I grew older, I realized no matter how hard I wish for my father to be the perfect dad it was not going to happen.

I had a cruel and unloving, distant father—not a hero.  I wanted a dad who swung me on his shoulders and referred to me as only his little princess or someone who danced and sang silly songs in the car with me.  I wanted someone who loved me unconditionally and understood me because I was just like him, but instead he worked long hours.  He worked first shift and took as much over time as possible then would head to Continental.  Coming home at ten or eleven every night and getting up early for work again was ideal for him.  I watched him pull out of the driveway every night without saying bye; in fact, he wished to be as absent from my life as much as possible. 

For as long as I can remember, my father always told me I was adopted.  “The Fedex guy dropped you off at the doorstep,” he would laugh and say.  I thought it was a family joke, but it wasn’t a joke at all.  He had this sick idea that my mom cheated on him, and I wasn’t his kid.  Between my older brother, younger sister, and me, I look the most like him.  I have blonde, curly hair just like him and big brown eyes.  My nose is the exact replica of his.  He didn’t want me to be his.  He loved and adored my brother, Codi, and sister, Madison, more than me, and it showed.  He’d say, “Hey, Codi, let’s go outside and throw the football” and “Sis, want to go get some chocolate ice cream?” His comments made me feel invisible because I was never the sis he was talking to.  A million times I would hear, “I wish you were more like your brother” when I did not put the right feed in the correct bucket.

Until about eight years ago, my father lived (although he seemed to never be there) in the same home as the rest of my family.  For about half of my life, I spent my days wondering how I could make him proud.  What could I do to make him happy?  Some days I would wake up at 5 o’clock and go downstairs to make him coffee before he left for work, but then he would say, “Just go out and do the chores, so your siblings can sleep in.”  I was seven years old spending every waking moment attempting to please my unpleasable father; even though, I could never be good enough for him.

Growing up without a father in my life has transformed me in more ways than I thought possible.  Yes, I do have a father, and yes, I want to believe he probably does love me; but that does not change the fact that I feel so completely abandoned and unwanted.  I am now almost eighteen years old, and I know I will never speak with my father again.  I will not have someone to call when my car breaks down, and I am stranded on I-75.  I will not have someone to vent to when my relationships do not work out.  I will not have a father to walk me down the aisle and give me away when I say I do.  I have never been a daddy’s little girl, but I have always been and always will be fatherless.