Lyndis' Tales Of Trials And Tribulatons

People come and go.

My mom broke the news to me.

My biological dad passed away a couple of days ago.

She had known for a little while but hadn't told me because she said she knew that I'd get emotional over it.

She was right.

I told myself I wouldn't cry over the man that had beaten and hurt my mom and kicked us both out when I was a baby.

But I couldn't help it.

My mom said that he had died of kidney failure due to drinking too much. He had recovered from something else previously, but died a few months later.

He's buried in Honduras, his and my mom's home country.

My mom told me not to waste my tears on him. Said that nothing good could have come from having him as someone important in my life.

I told her that I knew, but it still hurt. You see, we left him when I wasn't even one year old. I knew nothing about him. No face, didn't even know his name. He was just this imaginary character with a blurry face.

I wanted to see him.

Once.

Maybe when I was old enough. Maybe I could have found him.

I don't know what I would have done.

Confronted him? Maybe.

Scream? Perhaps.

Cry? Definitely.

I just knew my blurry-faced John Doe needed a mug. I wanted to see his face. I wanted to see my dad. The man I shared features and DNA with.

I wanted to know why he did this to me.

And not just to me. I also learned I have 3 other siblings. Two are young little kids that live in Florida and the other is a kid that lives in New Jersey like me. But he's in college now and stuff.

I guess I wasn't the only kid weeping about their useless father.

I was angry.

But mostly I was hurt.

He never contacted me. Never. Not once in the 14 years without seeing him.

But my mom said something else to me.

And this hurt me even more. But it made me happy as well.

He was proud of me.

My mom kept in contact with his relatives over Facebook, and shared pictures and videos of me.

When I played a solo at a winter concert.

When I had won a spelling bee.

When I was promoted from middle school.

All those moments that he should have been there for.

My mom, against her better judgement, shared them.

And he was proud of the young woman I am.

He didn't say a word to my mom. Didn't respond to a single one of her messages.

Didn't relay messages to his family to tell my mom.

But on his Facebook account, he had posted a picture of me at my promotion ceremony, me all dressed up in my cap and gown.

He had watched my concert solo.

He had seen my Spelling Bee awards.

He was proud of the person I became.

And here's the kicker: His family told my mom that he talked about me. Talked about his oldest daughter.

It was bittersweet.

How could you not contact me if you were so proud?

How could you kick me and my mom out like garbage?

How could you abandon multiple children like this?

But my mom said that he was a self-destructive person.

He got drunk.

He committed crimes.

He didn't take care of himself.

He had demons in him. There was something in himself that he hated.

And this was his way of dealing with it.

Didn't want help.

Didn't seek therapy.

Instead he chose to drown his sorrow in a bottle of liquor.

This made me cry more.

But then I stopped.

Because he's at peace now.

Whatever was eating at him, making him miserable, the demons, shall we say, are gone now.

He's in a better place now.