Confessions of a Daddy's Girl ✔

06/11/15

Dear TVIMH,

This the part where I get super sappy. Hey, even a hardcore emotion-masker like me's got her weak moments.

Anyway, Mom's all upset 'cause I mentioned the word "husband" in her presence today (and then kept repeating it just to see how worked up I could get her. Pretty worked up, as it turned out. I've been banished to my room for the next three months). 

So I figured the best way to piss her off even more is to write about Daddy. My Daddy was a great guy. My best friend growing up. And I mean that. A thirty-year-old man was my best friend in the whole wide world. He spoiled me by sneaking me candy and other treats behind Mom's back. Melody had always been the girly-girl princess of the family, and I'd happily settled into the tomboy image. That meant long afternoons in the park playing sports with Dad under the scorching hot son.

A timeline of my life starring Daddy would go something like: 

Six years old. Daddy and I climbing trees and both failing epically. 

Seven years old. Daddy and I catching bugs in jars and causing Melody and Mom to completely flip out. 

Nine years old. Daddy coming into school to drop off the lunch I'd accidentally-on-purpose forget to bring at least once a week, just so I could see my daddy at lunchtime.

'Daddy's little girl', the kids at school used to mock. I didn't mind. In fact, I took it as a compliment. I would've had that shit on a T-shirt in a flash if I'd known how to do it back then.

Once, I overheard my grandparents talking about what a shame it was for Daddy to end up with two girls despite his wish of having at least one son. I think that was the point where the bond I had with my father began to fray just a little. Daddy never shared this fact with me, of course. He always spoiled me. Treated me like the apple of his eye. If he regretted not having a son, I never picked up on it.

Still, sometimes when Daddy and I were fishing or playing catch, I felt like he was a complete stranger. I couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't really seeing me, but rather the son he'd never had.

Sometimes I wonder about these things. I wonder about a lot of different things now that Daddy's dead. Religion. Existential purpose. Do I get to call myself a real poet now?