Wonder About Him
I often wonder what it would’ve been like to have a dad growing up.
A video flashed across my screen. A bride dancing with her father at her wedding, followed by an old home video of the two of them years before, laughing and dancing together in their living room.
It lasted only a few seconds, but I felt this warmth vibrating inside my chest, followed by a fragile, sharp pain.
It’s envy.
I know it.
I wonder what it’s like to grow up with a man’s love and not spend your childhood searching for it in men who should’ve known better.
Men who looked at a little girl and saw something other than a child.
Because they never saw me the way I wanted to be seen. They never held me with love. Their intentions were never pure.
I wonder if I would’ve known the difference if I’d had a father.
If I had known what safety looked like.
What love without conditions felt like.
Jealousy quietly slips in whenever I hear women tell stories about their dads. Stories that seem so ordinary to them, but feel like a life I’ll never know.
If I ever had the chance to meet him, I wouldn’t take it.
I don’t want to know another face that didn’t want me.
