Using all of my body weight, I slam the last lid on the bin overflowing with clothes. I take one last long look at my childhood room. It isn’t a pretty sight. At eleven, I had ignored my mother’s cautioning and painted the walls bright orange. Looking at it now, I couldn’t help but notice the color’s exact resemblance to Kraft’s Easy Mac and Cheese. Skimming over the green accent chairs, (Why did a bright orange room need accent colors!?) I am surprised to find a single picture frame left sitting on the dresser. I rush over, shocked that I forgot to pack it with the rest of my things. I pick it up carefully, like I always do, and peek at the unfamiliar face of my smiling father.

Do I make you proud? 

Out of habit, I flip open the back of the frame and a folded piece of paper falls out. I carefully unfold the paper, although I already know what I will find.  I see the familiar title, “Things I know about my father” scribbled in a child’s handwriting. 

He taught and coached basketball.

He drove a truck.

The line to get into his viewing was three blocks long.

 He was everyone’s best friend

Immediately I was taken back to Kindergarten, when my class hosted a “Dad’s Day”. Everyone was allowed to invite their Dad to the last hour of school for activities and treats. The whole classroom smelled of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. My classmates’ faces began lighting up as they saw their own dad and rushed to greet him. I remember staring down at my hands, carefully analyzing each finger, trying to do anything but show the disappointment on my face. That’s when the list began. 

But my desire to know my Dad began long before that. I used to pester my mom with questions about him. I wanted to know every detail. I wanted to be just like him. When I found out he didn’t like tomatoes, I decided I didn’t either.  

“What was Dad’s favorite food?”

My mom gave me one of her classic sympathetic smiles before answering, “He liked everything except tomatoes.”

“I don’t like tomatoes either, Mom,” my five year old voice bragged. 

Another sympathetic smile. 

Growing up, I had received countless of those sympathetic smiles. It seemed like everyone in town knew about the “poor children without a father”. People never surpassed the opportunity to admire how “ we walked just like him” or how “our smiles were identical”. I always appreciated those comments; it was the old ladies that I couldn’t stand. They would approach me, the fresh air drowned by their sweet musk, and while gently pulling on my curls with their cold boney fingers say, “God needed him more”. I understood these words were supposed to be of comfort, but instead it left me with a more confused perspective about our Father in Heaven. 

God was responsible for this? God was all powerful, how could God need him more than me?

I needed a dad. My whole life I had recognized that something was different about my family. I had spent years observing other people’s fathers, picking out characteristics and qualities that I wanted in my own..  At the time it was important that my future father played sports, could make anyone laugh, and wasn’t bald. 

 When my mom got engaged, I was so excited to finally have my own dad. I remember thoughts of piggyback rides and ice cream trips filling my head after my mother told us the news. A small wedding and a short move later, it was finally happening. My first Father/Daughter date. The smile remained plastered on my seven year old face that day as I anxiously waited for my Step Father’s return from work. 

We arrived at the building where the ballet, Cinderella, was taking place. I remember walking side by side with my new father, wondering if I should hold his hand like I held my mother’s. Wanting to impress him with my maturity, I decided against hand holding. My heart was pounding and even though we didn’t talk on the way in, the smile still hadn’t left my face. The whole auditorium smelled of kettle corn mixed with the stale odor of recycled air-conditioned air. People slid past us to get to their seats and I observed my new father’s friendly attitude to the people passing. 

He looked nothing like the picture I had of my biological father, who had blonde curly hair with bright blue eyes. My step father’s hair was practically gray and his eyes were dark. He was older than my mother and had wrinkles on his face that all turned up like he hadn’t stopped smiling a day in his life, fortunately he wasn’t bald. 

The lights flickered on and off, my eyes widened as I watched the ballerinas begin their routine. Only ten minutes into the showing and my trance was distrubed by a loud snore. To my horror, my stepfather was sound asleep with his mouth wide open.. With every snore, more people would turn to look for the source. An older lady caught my eye and gave me a sympathetic smile similar to my mother’s. My own smile left as I felt my face turn bright red. I didn’t see any more of the dancing, instead I spent the remainder of the program staring down at my hands, analyzing each individual finger. The list stopped that night. 

I understood that my father was exhausted from working, blending a family, and maintaining a new marriage, however, that didn’t stop my young heart from putting up barriers. I was mad. I was mad at my Stepfather for falling asleep in a moment I had longed my whole life for. I was mad at my biological father for abandoning me, for dying. I was mad at my Heavenly Father because he was the one who had allowed all of this to happen. 

Fathers are overrated. 

I am staring at the picture, deep in thought, when a quiet knock brings me back to reality. 

My Father stands in my doorway with a soft smile on his face, “All packed?”

“Yup,” I say as I pack the picture away and pick up one of the heavy bins. 

Without being asked, he takes the bin from me and attentively starts loading my belongings into the car. After packing everything into our beloved Honda Odyssey, we start on the “long” trip to my new college apartment.  I am only twenty minutes away from my parent’s house, which is why I am surprised to see my Father’s eyes get watery.

I think about our relationship’s growth throughout the last few years, as our favorite artist, Elton John, plays in the background. A slight smile spreads across my face as I remember him jumping up and down on the sideline of my soccer game when I scored a goal. I think about the countless times I called him to park the car in the garage when I got too nervous and how patient he was with me all the times I crashed into the side of the house. I am reminded of when I received my acceptance into Brigham Young University, how he was the first person I wanted to tell.

 When I longed for a new father, I always pictured that he would fill the hole in my heart, but he hasn’t. My step father’s job isn’t to be the missing piece; he is his own addition. While my heart still aches for my biological father, it has also grown a new spot that completely belongs to him. 

I watch my father as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Your Song. 

He pulls into the JCW’s drive thru, “Would you like anything?”

I smile, “Cheeseburger, no tomato.”