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It was my wedding after all. As the bride, didn’t I at least deserve that?
The Definition of Insanity
People say Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. I wasn’t crazy. I might be a general hot mess, but I was by no means cuckoo. I did, however, fit Albie’s supposed definition.
As soon as I had some time alone, I unzipped my emotional baggage to try on some of my old bullshit. And, yup, those daddy-issue-demons still fit like a glove. Familiar and broken in, I slipped right back into my old unhealthy habits with no regard for my progress or peace of mind.
I had to. It was the only way to resolve the obsessive loop that had been running through my mind since I realized I’d be walking down the aisle alone.
I needed to contact my father.
I didn’t mention this to Hale or Elle or anyone else who might try to talk me out of it. This was what I wanted. I didn’t care how illogical or emotionally dangerous it might be. I had to try and I didn’t want anyone stopping me.
I already knew the emotional dangers and what my friends’ arguments would be. But the alternatives weren’t the same as having the one thing I knew I probably would never get. I stubbornly and unrealistically wanted it to be my dad.
Yes, moms also gave their daughters away. Sometimes brides even made that final walk alone. But, according to tradition, it was supposed to be a dad’s job.
After all of Hale’s comments about the charm of tradition, I understood the appeal. In this area specifically, I wanted the fairytale, by the books, with father and daughter arm in arm.
I knew the origin of this practice was tied up with some patriarchal bullshit having to do with dowries and treating women like property, but my brain wasn’t focused on the archaic roots. I could only see the symbolism of a beautiful tradition that evolved into something sacred and stood the test of time—something the little girl in me longed for deeply.
All I felt—all I wanted—was one symbolic gesture from my father to prove once and for all—regardless of whatever messed up history we shared—he loved me enough to be there on my wedding day.
Just this. That was all I was asking for. One. Simple. Walk.
And I knew it wouldn’t happen.
The echo from years of rejection still stung and I welcomed the familiar, hopeless ache that hollowed my stomach every time I contemplated reaching out to him again. Of course I was going to try. I was a glutton for punishment. And, according to Albie Einstein, insane.
But it wasn’t like I was broadcasting my unhinged bad habits for the world to see. Of course not. That’s why I was hiding on the second floor, in the empty guest room, while Hale was downstairs making calls and Andrew and Elara were at the park.
My actions were harmless. The only person who would get hurt was me, and I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. I’d done this a hundred times before and every time I tried to contact him the blurry reality cleared a little more. He was never going to come back into my life. I knew this. As long as I stayed fully aware of the probable outcome and how impossible and unrealistic my hope was, I would be okay.
I’d send the message, wait a few days, then call Elle and she’d show up with a bottle of tequila and a bag of oranges and we’d drink until it didn’t hurt anymore. Although, now, Elle would probably just eat the fruit, which was fine. More tequila for me.
My best friend wouldn’t approve of what I was doing, which was why I hadn’t told her my plans. As my ride-or-die-bitch-for-life she’d have no choice but to show up for damage control when it was over. She could lecture me then.
My dad had not responded to me in nearly sixteen years, and, before then, his correspondence had been impersonal and sparse.
I opened Facebook and swiped through my DMs until I stared down at the last ten messages I sent him. They quantified to about ten years of my life until I finally stopped reaching out. Each desperate request for any semblance of a relationship with the man who made me had gone unanswered. But they were read.
His privacy settings were tighter than a virgin asshole, so I had no way of knowing if this account that I assumed was my dad’s was the correct Raymond Meyers. But all the other Raymond Meyers and Ray Meyers I found over the years had the decency to respond, kindly letting me know that they were not the man I was looking for, many of them wishing me luck in locating my real father.
This was the only Raymond Meyers who had read my messages and not responded. I knew, from the way my stomach twisted and my gut swooshed, that this Raymond Meyers was him.
His profile picture was a bald eagle and all his other photos were on lockdown. His hometown was listed as Darby, Pennsylvania, but no schools, workplaces, or marital status showed. However, Oregon was listed under places lived and that was exactly where he left us thirty years ago.
He used to keep in touch. I still had some foggy memories of hanging by the kitchen door as my mom spoke quietly on a landline phone. I was young and their conversations went over my head but I remember my mom mentioning money, which my dad never sent.
On birthdays I’d get a card—the small kind that was made of flimsy paper and only said two words inside. But those words, printed plainly in low-quality ink, were the best birthday gift I received every year. That HAPPY BIRTHDAY meant more to me than all the bicycles and balloons I’d ever received.
When I was twelve, I waited for the mailman to come, but when he filled our mailbox with sales papers and bills there was no card from my dad. All week I waited anxiously for his card to arrive. When it never did, I blamed the post office.
I wrote my dad several letters, letting him know the stupid mailman lost his card and making sure he had our address right. I told him not to write in cursive and print very clearly on his next envelope. All of those letters were returned.
There was a period when I thought something terrible happened to him. I searched the internet for mentions of his name but found nothing. I was eighteen when I gave up. Then social media came around, breathing life and hope back into my old obsessive search and I was back at it again.
None of my milestone birthdays meant as much as they should, because I was always aware someone was missing. I wanted to get over his rejection, truly I did. My dad’s abandonment was a primal wound. It cut deep and would take more than one lifetime to heal. I didn’t want to feel the things his abandonment made me feel, but I had no way to shut those emotions off.
