FIFTY YEARS

I’m old enough to know better.

A grown woman wondering if her father remembers her birthday. Wondering if he remembers it’s been 50 years since she was born, 48 years since he walked away. 

What is one supposed to do with that?

In just a few days I will wrap-up half a century of life. Fifty sounds far younger than it once did and I really haven’t given the milestone much thought, save the random thought that has become lodged in my heart and mind over the past weeks. I wonder if he remembers.

I often shy away from this part inside, the little girl that sometimes wanders out of the room I’ve so carefully crafted for her in my mind. When she comes with her questions I try to remind her that we’re all grown up now - time has passed, answers have passed, her and her needs are no longer welcome here.

I try to remind her that she doesn’t matter.

But when one endeavors to show up with all of who they are, ‘all’ includes the little girl. Despite my wrestling and reasoning, I have found no way around this.

The little girl holds questions from the past. She is at times scared and confused, wondering at the course of a life beyond her control, wondering at choices that were not hers to make. She longs for safety and security, a reminder that she is loved and cherished and valued.

But the little girl is also brave and curious, fiercely resilient and wildly creative. Life is full of possibility and wonder and she will agree to no limitations. Inside of her breathes a unique and secure identity, there are not words to describe her, only a force that propels her.

To deny part of her is to deny all of her.

And so I try to remind her that she does indeed matter.

I sit with the little girl and her questions, but I have no answers to give. Perhaps this is why it is so much easier to simply keep her locked in her room. 

In part I want to tell her that we have a dad, the one who loved us and raised us since she was seven. Would we really want a strained relationship with a stranger, some awkward ‘Happy Birthday’ from a man we barely know? Genetics do not define real family, I’m inclined to point out, it’s the ones who showed up that matter.

And all of that is true.

But I also want to tell her it’s okay to wonder at the man who was supposed to love her, the one who would have looked down at her precious and tiny face, her delicately formed infant fingers and toes. It’s okay to feel like something was taken from her, that a price was paid without her consent. It’s okay to shed tears because she knew loss before she could possibly define it. 

I do not know what to say to her, but despite every part of me that wants to shy away, I choose to welcome the little girl.

In truth, there can be no moving forward without her. 

And so I let her questions breathe so that she can do the same, her lungs healing and growing as they are given room for air. She has a place inside of me and I long to handle her without shame, using my voice to speak the comfort she so longs to hear. 

I doubt there will be many answers and with all my adult accomplishments and knowledge I still cannot map out a direction, but I move forward with her anyway - the girl and the woman, hand-in-hand together. 

Does he remember my birthday? 

The little girl hopes so. The grown woman does, too.