My parents met through an ad in the paper in 1977. They were both 25 years old and I guess things must have happened pretty quickly because in October 1978 my mother had moved to my father’s hometown and she was pregnant. I was born in June 1979. I have heard that they lived in a small apartment with one bedroom and that they were short of money most of the time. My father was self-employed and his company built greenhouses, but my mother says that he didn’t know how to run a business properly. She blames the break-up on my father’s lack of money because this led to constant quarrels between them.

However, when I was two years old my mother took me back to her hometown and ended the relationship. She later told me that my father had tried to get her and me to move back, that he had drove to my grandmother’s house and talked to my mother about how to work things out. My mother didn’t want to work things out; she had made up her mind about leaving him.

I grew up in Stockholm with my mother and my grandmother. I don’t remember thinking about who my father was. It took nearly 10 years until I saw my father again and by then I had forgotten all about him, except for what he looked like in the family pictures. It was a child psychologist who arranged for me to visit him and his new family for a week. But my dad didn’t want me to live with his new wife and children, so he rented a cabin close by for me and my mother. I think he kept our visit a secret for everyone but his mother. My mother had made sure that I stayed in touch with her through letters and postcards. I remember that I couldn’t really grasp that the man I met was my father. He tried to explain to me why he had disappeared from my life, but I had never missed him. I never said anything to anyone about how this visit messed with my emotions. I kept quiet and said to the child psychologist back home that it was nice to se my parents together.

For some years I met my father every Christmas and summer. I flew down by my self and lived with his new family. It always felt funny. He worked night shifts and slept during the day so I mostly hung out with my half brother and half sister. Luckily my father’s wife had a daughter at the same age as me and we became friends. Actually, I think I felt like I was visiting a friend’s family twice a year. When I was 13 my dad came to visit me with my half sister. My mom moved out of our apartment and I had my first chance to get to know my dad. It all went to waste because we quarrelled over a small thing and he left after just two days. The last thing he said was that he didn’t want to see me again and that I was a incredibly spoiled. I was devastated. I called my mother and cried so hard I couldn’t explain what had happened. She came right home and comforted me. I asked her if she would make me se him again and she promised that I never would have to se him again, unless I wanted to.

During my teens I thought quit a lot about me, my dad and why I didn’t know him. I grew up in a suburb where divorces weren’t that common and I went to school in a neighbourhood where most kids lived in large houses with their nuclear families. I remember one time when everyone should report two emergency phone numbers to the school; one for your mother’s work and one for your father’s. The teachers collected the numbers in front of the class. I gave her my mother’s number and then she asked "And what about your father?". I mumbled something that she couldn’t hear and she asked again. Then I had to say it load and clear and I remember exactly what I said. "It’s no use taking his number.". A boy in my class (I even remember who it was.) cracked a joke on my behalf and some of my classmates laughed. The feelings I had then is etched in my memory.

It took more than 10 years before I saw my father again. The only person I kept in touch with among my fathers relatives was my grandmother. When I was 24 years old she passed away. I got a phone call from her daughter, my aunt. I was so disappointed that it wasn’t my father who told me and I decided immediately to travel to the funeral. I arrived early at the church and sat in the fourth row to wait for the funeral to begin. My father walked in with my aunt and her family to the sound of church bells and I thought that he would look for me among the faces in the church, but he just starred at the floor. I started to cry and I couldn’t stop. I cried throughout the ceremony because I thought he didn’t want to see me. The priest looked at me with compassion, probably thinking that I was mourning my grandmother. Of course some of the tears were for her, but most of them were for my father. I felt like my grandmothers death was the end of my bound to him.

After the ceremony my father went out first. I waited and wiped the mascara of my cheeks. After a while I walked out in the light and he walked up to me and put his arms around me. "I’m so glad you came" he said. We took a walk in the cemetery and he showed several graves belonging to our relatives. He introduced me to relatives who remembered me as a baby. "Oh, I have a rug that you peed on when you where just one year old." my grandmother’s sister told me. He told me that he had got divorced from his wife a few years ago and that he had lost contact with his other children too. Then he asked me if he could write to me, even though it wouldn’t be often because he was bad at keeping in touch. I said yes.

Now I don’t know what really happened when my parents split up. Some time ago I found a letter that my mother never posted to my father. It contains this sentence "I know you said that you don’t want to have any contact with Maria, but I thought you should know that she is doing fine." Those words felt like knifes. I thought that the contact between my mother and father had just fizzled out as time went by. I never knew that my father had made a decision not to see me again. I haven’t confronted him with this. We write to each other for Christmas and birthdays but that’s it. I’m considering a visit next summer. Maybe I will ask him then.

2 comments:

Your story truly touched me. I am so thankful that you chose to write it so that others can relate and not feel alone.  I would encourage you to confront him about the letter. But I have noticed in the past that I have to be able to give myself time to forgive a person before I confront them. That way, their response doesn't affect me if it is bad or good, because I chose to forgive and love them.
I will pray for your situation. Remember that though our earthly fathers fail us, our heavenly father remains faithful and loves you dearly.

Tack för din berättelse. Jag känner igen mig i den. Vi har fått bära mycket som inte varit vårat fel. den oskyldiga skammen sätter sina spår. känner med dig i händelsen av att inte kunna lämna sin pappas nummer i klassrummet. Och att bli hånad dessutom. För mig var det en mardröm att tala om min frånvarande pappa. Jag tyckte det var modigt av dig att åka till din farmors begravning. Tiden läker inte alla sår..så är det bara. jag försökte som du stoppa undan alla känslor och kämpade med depressioner genom hela uppväxten utan att en endaste gång erkänna att jag saknade pappa. jag var bara så ledsen, och arg, och bar runt på en ständig inre besvikelse och olustig övergivenhet. tampas fortfarande med det.
Ta hand om dig. du är den viktigaste personen i ditt liv.