I Refused to Call Him Dad. He Needed to Earn That Title.
Genetics made him my father. Love made him my dad
“Mummy, do I have a dad?”
I was five when I asked the question that my mother had probably been dreading, but she handled it well. “Your dad’s name is Harry. After you were born, he married another lady. We don't see him, and he doesn't come and see us.”
My mum rummaged through a drawer then pulled out a photo of a man with blond hair wearing racing silks. “You can keep this photo,” she said as she handed it over.
I had a name and a photo, and at five, that was more than enough information to satisfy me.
A few months later, Mum pulled me aside. “Do you remember what I told you about your dad?”
I nodded.
“Your dad and his wife had a baby girl last week. Remember, we don't see them, and they won't come and see us.”
I’d wanted a sister. I was an only child living in a house full of adults, my Mum, her sister, and my grandparents. Now I had a sister of my own. Okay, sure, I couldn't meet her and play with her, but it was still exciting. Other kids my age had imaginary friends. I had a secret sister. And I could play pretend, in my imagination we were the best of friends.
Over the years, I gleaned little snippets about Harry. Mainly from my Aunt and my Gran. I knew Harry was once a relatively successful jockey. Both my Aunt and Gran seemed keen to point out that Harry was short, although I never really understood why that was important. Weren't all jockeys short? For some reason, the fact that he wore false teeth stuck with me. I’d often tap my teeth with a fingernail testing their strength as I made a fervent wish, hoping the need for false teeth wasn’t a genetic trait.
I was sixteen when my aunt spotted a birth announcement. Harry and his second wife had welcomed another boy into their family. My aunt told me the birth announcement read:
“The stable is now full.”
More siblings!
The stable was full. So, Harry had his perfect family … and where did that leave me?
Harry put himself out of the running early in my life. The idea of a dad was a concept. Harry was someone I thought of as a sperm donor rather than a parental figure. An absent person who hadn’t rejected me personally but simultaneously dismissed the very idea of me.
At five, I’d been content with the knowledge of a sister and a dream that one day we could be friends. When I turned eighteen, the idea of meeting my siblings started festering into an itch I had to scratch.
The price of a relationship with my sister and brothers would be tolerating the sperm donor.
Could I do that?
I started by ringing every Wulff in the phone book.
No Harry. I put some feelers out and discovered that Harry had moved to Port Hedland. Perth is a small place, and I told everyone I knew I was looking for Harry. I’d give out my phone number willy nilly. Eventually, a friend had an uncle who also lived in Port Hedland, and I gave her my phone number to pass on.
Finally, the messages that I was looking for him reached Harry.
Long-distance calls were still expensive back then, so we started with a quick two-minute call after 10 pm where we basically said hello and exchanged addresses — so we could exchange letters.
The letter writing caused me a conundrum. I didn’t want to sign off as from Sandi. It sounded too formal. I certainly didn’t want to use love Sandi, because Harry was still a stranger.
So I settled for wuzzles, Sandi. It seemed like a nice compromise, so that’s how I signed my letters for the next six months.
At that point, we decided it was time to meet. I booked my holidays, and Harry purchased my ticket.
It was a small plane. Turbulence bounced the little aircraft around, matching my emotions. I was nineteen and did not know what I was getting into.
Would I like this man who was my dad?
Was I doing the right thing?
At midnight, I stepped off the aircraft.
Would I recognize Harry?
Would he recognize me?
I looked around nervously before a small figure strutted forward.
Harry. The sperm donor. The absent father.
I’m a tad over five ft. The man strutting in my direction was shorter than I was. And I smiled because the comments about Harry being short my Auntie and Gran were so fond of finally made sense.
Harry took my smile as a sign and embraced me.
With typical angry teenage bluntness, I was first out the gate. “I won’t be calling you dad. You have to earn that right.”
Harry nodded. “That sounds fair.”
My midnight arrival meant the household was sleeping, so we sat in the kitchen. I pressed my back into the chair and resisted the urge to fold my arms. Harry started chain-smoking and finally revealed the answers I needed.
“I went to see you a few times, you know.”
I hadn't known this, but I kept my face blank.
“I was nineteen. My career was taking off. My mates said if I claimed you, I’d have to pay child support. You listen to stupid things when you’re nineteen.”
He paused, then continued, “I was thinking all this over, so I didn’t visit you that week. You could say the horse bolted with fright. But a week turned to a month, then a year. The longer I left it …” his voice trailed off.
With trembling hands, Harry lit another cigarette. “You were at the racetrack one day. Sitting there throwing stones and making up stories as you talked to yourself. You can't have been more than three. Dad was there to see me race. We watched you for a while, then I turned to him and said, Good little filly, that one. She’d make a good grandchild for you.”
Harry puffed on his cigarette for a while before he spoke again. “Dad knew who you were. Everyone knew. It wasn’t a secret.”
“The next thing I knew, your Mum was married. I looked the chap up. He seemed ok. That was the point I knew I could never walk back into your life. The stable door was closed. I was going to have to wait for you to find me.”
“And here I am,” I said.
I was still angry, still bitter — but knowledge is power. I could understand Harry’s point of view. Because the nineteen-year-old boys I knew probably would have made the same stupid decision too.
Understanding and acceptance are two different emotions. I was only partway along the journey.
Over the next five years, Harry drifted in and out of my life. Our contact was sporadic. I could blame the distance. I was always a city girl while Harry liked country life. But the blame rests with me. I always kept Harry at arm’s length, an endless punishment for the sin of abandonment.
Staying in contact became easier after my son was born and the Wulff family moved from Port Hedland to Goomalling. There were trips to the Scitech and the zoo, and plenty of family catchups.
All this time, Harry remained Harry, never Dad. He never tried to make up for the lost years. Harry understood they were lost. But when it came to being a grandparent, Harry was a thoroughbred.
Just after my thirty-third birthday, Harry rang, his voice shaking. “Telling you this, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I’ve got lung cancer. I tried the chemo. It’s not for me. I guess I don't get to retire out at pasture after all.”
All too soon, Harry shifted into palliative care. My son and I went on a road trip to say goodbye. We spent the day at Harry’s home. As always, I sat and watched, rarely participating in the conversation.
As Harry interacted with our family, my brothers and sister and my son, I noticed how he'd grown. The nineteen-year-old who hadn’t been ready to be a father when I was a baby had gone. In his place was a loving dad and husband—and a doting grandfather.
As my brothers debated the latest footy match. My son sat at the table, animatedly talking, “So when Squirtle gets to level 16, he evolves into Wartole. And then …”
“Let me guess. He evolves again?” Harry asked.
My son nodded, ready to continue, but Harry beat him to it.
“Is that when the squirter becomes a wuzzle?” Harry winked at me.
My sister shook her head, trying not to smile, as my son spluttered in indignation.
There was so much love present at that table — it was beautiful to witness. My blinkers were no longer blinding me to the truth. There was no trace of the absent father I’d resented. This man had learned how to be a dad. Harry had hit his stride.
Parenting was a wild horse Harry had finally tamed.
At the end of the day, when we returned Harry to the palliative care unit at the nearby hospital, I squeezed his hand, kissed him, and told him, “I’ll see you soon, Dad.”
We both knew it was a lie. Dad was on the home stretch.
It was a lie that didn't matter because, with one word, my dad knew I had forgiven him.
Sandi Parsons is an award-winning school librarian with over 20 years experience working in educational libraries. She lives with her favorite husband and two problem puppies. Wuzzles remains one of her favorite words.
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