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My True Father
They say that girls end up marrying someone like their fathers. Each time I hear this, I find myself grateful to the universe—thankful that my biological dad isn’t my real father.
I remember one scorching afternoon vividly. I was a round middle-schooler, just finished an hour of horseback riding under the blazing sun, and I was parched. Turning to my stepdad, Jack, who had been watching my lesson, I asked him for a dollar for a drink from the vending machine. He handed it over without hesitation, then helped me into the cab of his truck, which was a refreshing relief from the heat since he’d arrived just before my lesson ended.
But as soon as we hit the road, my biological father, Mark, turned on me. “You will never ask that man for money in my presence again,” he snapped, his voice ice-cold and eerily controlled. “I’m your father; you should come to me for what you need.” Even at twelve, I saw through his hypocrisy. Just weeks earlier, he had cut off all financial support for my activities, leaving my mom, a school nurse, to struggle to keep up with the costs of horseback riding, an expensive passion of mine. While I mucked stalls to help pay, Jack, an elementary school teacher, stepped in to support me.
Sitting in that truck with an angry, jealous man, I realized he had never been—or would ever be—my true father. To others, Mark appeared charming and driven, but to me, he was cold and intimidating.
My mom made the best choice when she divorced him while pregnant with me. She soon began dating Jack, who became a steady presence in my life. My biological father had a ridiculous nickname for me: “Sports Fan,” even though I had zero interest in sports. This summed up our relationship perfectly—he didn’t know me and didn’t care to. He forced me to memorize science facts, banned TV, and took me camping in muddy woods where I felt miserable and alone. He even tried to teach me how to shoot a gun, which terrified me.
In contrast, Jack called me ‘Sunny,’ a silly name that somehow felt just right. He let me win at games, shared magic tricks, and patiently taught me how to ride a bike. My biological father was married to my stepmother, Susan, for several years; she was a wonderful presence until their divorce took her away, leaving me confused when she vanished from my life. There were other women too, who came and went, but Jack was always there for me, a comforting constant.
As an only child, I craved family. Jack, who came from a big, loving family, provided the warmth and stability I needed. My biological father had unrealistic expectations that I never wanted to meet. On my thirteenth birthday, instead of celebrating, he took me to a secluded spot and lectured me about my weight, echoing the cruel taunts of bullies at school. After that, I chose to cut him out of my life completely.
A real father is there for the messy moments—chasing a toddler around after a mishap, picking up a child after a bike crash, caring for a pet that’s been abandoned, and cheering at every school play. He teaches life skills, supports you through tough times, walks you down the aisle, and celebrates your milestones. He shows up at the hospital to meet your first child, becoming the proud grandfather of your kids.
For me, Jack is my true father.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the author’s realization that their biological father is not their true father. They recount experiences with their stepfather, Jack, who provides love, support, and stability, contrasting with their biological father’s coldness and disappointment. The narrative emphasizes the importance of a real father’s presence in a child’s life.