I know I’m not the only person who comes from a broken home. And I can feel that others have forgiven and forgotten their parents’ indiscretions (if indeed, there were any). But I can’t seem to do that. Not even with my 31 years and what I believe to be a compassionate heart.

I don’t care what kind of flack I get. I will get really personal with you, because if you know me, then straight up is the only way I can be.

I don’t give a f*ck if you stick your ting into a woman, produce a child, and somehow proclaim yourself to be a father.  Because once that child is born, you’re supposed to KNOW that love, devotion, and responsibility are paramount to that family’s growth and success. You do NOT (“hypothetically speaking”) bring your pregnant mistress into your family home to meet your children, regardless of how pretty she tells your youngest daughter she is.

I hear it all the time: blood is thicker than water. Respect your elders. Blah fucking blah. If you DISrespect me, my family, or the way I live my life, do you really expect daisies and lollipops in return, just because I so happened to acquire genes from a random man and woman one day so long ago?

Mothers are not automatically off the hook either, but that’s a totally different story.  I’m already flubber-faced and teary-eyed as I write this, and forcing myself to come back to the present and be grateful for what I have right NOW.

I have a wonderful child and I’m married to, I swear, the kindest man I could ever know;  one who loves our daughter and me, his wife, without bounds, who would never leave my side and protects all that is sacred within a real, loving family.

THAT is what Father’s Day is about. As I sit here and wipe my hideously snotty nose and red puffy eyes, hubby tells me that it’s been so long and I’m completely fine without him. This is true. But I don’t forget. EVER. How I wish one day I truly could. But look at what’s been done. I’ve been messed up for life.

Sometimes a girl really just wants her daddy.