The Truth About Growing Up with an Absent Father
Honestly, I hope I’m not the only one
Turning up to adulthood after a father-less childhood is like stepping out of a taxi in a foreign city on a different continent. Everything looks strange. Confusing. Unfamiliar. The road signs don’t make sense and everybody is walking around you acting like they know where they are going. They are oblivious to the fact that on the inside, you’re freaking out. Your data roaming doesn’t work and now you regret rushing through the airport, too excited to buy a map or ask for directions. You know there are supposed to be landmarks in the city but the buildings around you are so crammed in that you can’t see anything. You don’t know which way to go, which street might lead to your ideal destination and which path might lead to danger.
This was me in 2016 in Jerusalem. My family and I arrived in Tel Aviv after a midday flight from Cyprus, got into a taxi and drove straight to Jerusalem city centre. I’d waited for years for the opportunity to go to Jerusalem, and my naive, excited mind was too preoccupied about the destination to buy a map or ask for directions. I had dreamed of this moment for years. Directions can wait. Maps can wait. I want to explore for myself.
But then, on a layby on a busy city road, the taxi dropped us off and the penny dropped. We were in a foreign city…
