“My dad can fix everything!” she read, from a mug in a bookstore full of Father’s Day merchandise and she grimaced. Can he now? was the first thought appeared in her mind. She wouldn’t know.
Growing up, her father hadn’t called her much. Then, he stopped calling altogether when she got old enough to yell at him about how he broke her heart. How she had grown up feeling lacking, as if she was robbed of a solid trunk to give her back to, with that blind trust the girls with fathers had.
Then, a decade passed without talking to him. She left her teens behind and became a woman. In the end, she was the one who reached out to him; finally seeing this door, which was stubbornly closed on a big part of her existence for years, was oozing poison through its cracks, into her life. They reconnected, talked about their feelings, caught up with each other’s lives, discovered the many things they had in common. They called each other more often after that. Everything seemed to fall into pieces; there was peace in her heart, and she had a father now, just a phone call away.
However, she’d never know how that blind trust would feel since she didn’t need to trust him anymore or just what a father could or couldn’t do for his daughter since she didn’t expect anything from him anymore. How in the earth he could fix everything for her if she turned into a child again and ran to him with many problems that made her cry? She simply couldn’t imagine someone other than her mother or herself fixing her problems.
She’d never know if he regretted not seeing her grow up; and even if he did, if he’d been feeling that regret every day of his life or if he could totally forget about it, about her, sometimes.
What she knew so well but not likely to admit was that every year, she wouldn’t be able to help but feel, at least a little, that the Father’s Day is a fake and an empty tradition, which didn’t concern her at all. Nor seeing around all those kids laughing with their dads hurt her even in the slightest.
She sighed then, gulping her emotions which had risen to her throat. With her eyes fixed on the books on the bestseller’s shelves, she reached for her smartphone she’d tucked into her back pocket. Her fingers slid across the screen: at first, hesitant, and then, determined. She held the phone to her ear, still looking at the books in front of her, not seeing.
“Hi, dad,” she said into the phone a few seconds later, with an energetic voice she summoned from God knows where. “Happy Father’s Day.”