To the Father I Never Truly Knew

There’s so much I could say, and yet I don’t know exactly where to begin — maybe because I don’t really know you. Not truly. What I do know is pieced together from a few childhood memories, secondhand stories, and the spaces where your presence should’ve been but wasn’t.

You died in 2008, and I never cried. Not because I didn’t care, but because I had already mourned your absence long before your physical death. You were the first person to abandon me, and even though I couldn't name it as a child, that kind of loss quietly settled into the foundation of how I saw myself and how I moved through the world. It taught me to reach for love in people who weren’t capable of giving it — to chase the idea of forever in relationships that were really just echoes of what I never received from you.

I can see now how that void influenced everything — how I searched for validation, how I clung to illusions, and how I tried to earn love instead of knowing I was worthy of it just for being me. Your absence left me with questions no one could answer, and it shaped my self-worth before I even had the chance to define it for myself.

There’s no anger here. No hatred. Just truth. The truth is, I don’t know why you weren’t there. I don’t know if it was a choice, a consequence, or a complication between you and my mother that I was too young to understand. All I know is that I grew up with a hole where you were supposed to be. I grew up wondering why I wasn’t worth staying for.

But I’m not wondering anymore. I know now that your absence was never a reflection of my value. I know that what I lacked from you, I’ve learned to give to myself. And while I may never understand the full story, I release the weight of needing to know. I release the shame, the confusion, and the emptiness that followed me through so many years.

You are a part of my story, but you no longer define the way I tell it.

I forgive the unknowns. I let go of the ache. I honor the few good memories I have and let the rest fall away.

You are free. And so am I.

— Niki

The only picture I have of my dad