I lived with Him. My Dad.

 

The strangest part of my life was the fact that, I lived with my dad. 

He didn’t die.

He didn’t move far.

He was just… there.

In the house. In my room. In the photos hanged close to the kitchen fridge. Always there. 

But he was never in the moments that needed him.

He never taught me how to ride a bike.

I learned by falling.

By scraping my knees and pretending I liked pain because no one came running.

I never learned how to read with him.

No bedtime stories.

No fingers following words in some story book. 

I learned letters from teachers who went home to their own sons.

He never played football with me.

I kicked the ball against walls until the wall got better at defending than my father ever did.

We ate in the same house.

Watched the same TV.

Breathed the same air.

But somehow, in some way, we never shared a childhood.

Other boys talked about their dads like superheroes.

Strong arms. Big laughs. Advice that sounded like maps.

Mine was quiet. Not peaceful, just absent.

He never taught me how to shave. So my face learned from mirrors and small cuts.

He never taught me how to talk to girls.

So I learned from rejection.

From heartbreak.

From staying longer than I should, just to feel chosen.

He never taught me how to be a man.

So the world did. Roughly. Without permission.

And Sometimes, Sometimes I wonder if he knew what he was supposed to teach me and chose not to, or if no one ever taught him either.

I don’t hate him. That’s what hurts the most.

I just grieve a father who lived long enough to be present… but not long enough to be involved.

Because the hardest thing about growing up without a dad isn’t the absence, it’s realizing you had one, and still had to raise yourself.   

amimoh_ombogo