The Most Valuable Lesson My Father Taught Me

As a 10-year-old boy, one of my biggest joys was a weekly trip to the Public Library. With no television at home, books were how I connected with the world and fed my curiosity. As my mother pulled into our parking spot in front of the apartment after one of these trips, I randomly commented.

“I wonder if my hair is ever going to turn black like Dads’.”

Her reply was the last thing in the world any child would expect to hear.

“Daniel is not your real dad. Your biological father’s name is Joseph. He lives in West Virginia. If you want to meet him, you’ll have to wait until you turn 18.”

My mother gathered her things and stepped out of the car, leaving me in a numb sense of shock. It was a surreal feeling watching her walk into the house and close the door, leaving me alone in the car. I sat there with my books, trying to comprehend what I had just heard. Time stopped, and God only knows how long I sat there, Paralyzed. Finally, I unbuckled my seatbelt, exited the car, and went into the house.

Over the years, I learned a small amount about my real dad. My mom left him when I was 6 months old. The stories she told did not paint him in a good light or suggest he was any kind of decent father. And if I ever wanted to meet him, the answer was the same every time, not until after my 18th birthday.

At 18, I joined the Marine Corps, was stationed in North Carolina, and realized I was not too far from where my real father might actually live.

I called my mom and told her I was ready to meet Joseph, and she gave me her friend Amy’s phone number. Who she had kept in touch with for the sole purpose of me being able to someday meet my father.

Amy arranged for me to meet my father. Upon my arrival, Amy and her husband picked me up from the airport and drove me to my uncle’s place.

I stepped into my uncle’s trailer. It was full of people who I assumed were aunts, uncles, and cousins who also wanted to meet me. Towards the back of the trailer, I saw a man who I somehow just knew was my Dad. I had never seen a picture of him, nor had he been described to me. But I knew it was him. Without saying a word, I walked over and gave him what was to be the most memorable hug I would ever have.

I heard someone whisper. “Wow, he just knew that it was him.”

Introductions to my relatives went well and consisted of stories about how they remembered me as a baby, along with how they had always wondered where I had ended up.

The next two days were an extremely short amount of time to catch up on 18 years. But it was worth it. And overall, the entire visit went well.

I only saw him four more times after that day. Funny how when we’re young and even sometimes older, we don’t truly understand that life is not forever.

My dad was an alcoholic when I was born. When I met him, he had been sober for 5 years. With each visit, I got the impression that he was a great dad. Interacting with him and my two half-brothers was a great time. I found it hard to believe this was the man my mother had spoken so poorly of.

However, at some point, my dad fell back into alcoholism. I had many conversations with him over the years between our visits. For hours on end several times a week, he would catch me up on his life and that of my brothers. But as the alcohol took over more and more of his life, it became difficult for me to continue speaking with him on the phone. It got to the point where he would be obviously drunk, no matter what time of day or night.

The same conversations were repeated over and over, consisting of him asking me the same questions, telling the same stories, and me giving the same replies as it was with each call prior. After a while, it became difficult and painful to talk to him, and I started avoiding his phone calls.

On my birthday one year, he left me a voicemail that I didn’t have the courage to listen to. I assumed it would be another drunken tirade, and I just didn’t want to hear it.

Nine days later, I got a voicemail from my brother. His tone was angry and cold.

“Hey, you need to answer your phone once in a while. Dad’s dead, call me back.”

I didn’t call him back right away. Instead, I decided to listen to that voicemail my dad had left me two weeks before.

“Hey Son, it’s your Dad. Happy Birthday. I love you.”

That was it. The final words from my dad to me. It was the first time he had been sober in years.

That day, I learned one of those lessons that we always wish we had learned a little sooner.

Regardless of how bad the situation made me feel.

No matter how many hugs I could have given.

No matter how many times I could have said to him, “I love you.”

I would always wish that I could have done it just one more time.

I love you too Dad.