I Refused to Call Him Dad. He Needed to Earn That Title.

Genetics made him my father. Love made him my dad

Sandi Parsons
P.S. I Love You

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Image by chiplanay from Pixabay

“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.

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Sandi Parsons
P.S. I Love You

Sandi Parsons lives & breathes stories as a reader, writer, and storyteller📚 Kidlit specialist, dipping her toes in the big kid’s pool.