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My father was my stable influence, my rock I relied on, but he wasn't there anymore. I cried, I rebelled and I cut myself, but I couldn't get my father's attention. I was left with a bitterness that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy and scars on my arms and legs that will always remind me of a broken childhood.

My father left my mother when I was 13. It happened right out of the blue. "I'm not in love with your mother anymore" he said. But why did he stop loving me? I didn't have the answer. My mother was in a terrible way. We tried to comfort each other, but to no avail, the person we loved, our hero, was gone. He left the house and the country. I sometimes think it would have been easier if he was dead. At least it would have been final. I would have been distraught, but the lingering doubts about his feelings toward me would not have existed.

I just wish he could have kept in contact and supported me and my brother. My mother is a shell of her former beautiful self. She survives but she doesn't live. If only she could re-connect with her friends, enjoy a social life and maybe meet another man.

"No man will live under this roof, other than my children's father" my mother says. What a harsh and unforgiving attitude, I wish she wouldn't curse herself in such a way. I would be happy if she met someone else and revitalized that glint that was once in her eyes. I wanted in part to blame her, but I couldn't, it wasn't her fault. I love her for not only being my mother, but for all she's been through. I admire her strength, but I long for her to lose that stubborn streak.

I hated my father, if it's possible to love someone so much you hate them for their actions. Who was going to help me through school? Who was going to advise me about boys? Who was going to offer that helping hand just when it's needed, as parents have the uncanny knack of doing? I was alone. I ached for my father to be there for me. I watched my outgoing little brother transform into a recluse. We needed a male influence, not just any male, my father.

We heard very little from him for several years, I saw him once and didn't know whether to hug him or kill him.

Six years have now past and he is returning to our city soon. I've spoken to him several times on the telephone. Instinctively his voice soothes me, but then I want to rip the phone from the wall. I am trying to be mature and be prepared to accept him into my life, it may be too late, but it was what I wanted. Nothing can replace those years he deserted me, but I am listening to that inner voice, that immediate reaction I get when he calls. I will cast the anger aside and concentrate on the future, the past is too painful. Forgive and forget they say. I may eventually forgive, but I won't forget. Hopefully he'll be a wonderful grand father some day.

Learn more about this author, Peter Robertson.
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