Shape of a Father
Father's Day has always felt like a room with two doors. One I still peek through, hoping memory will answer. The other, I walked into unexpectedly, only to find that love has a peculiar way of introducing itself. I've learned that fatherhood has never belonged solely to biology. In quiet consistency. In showing up. In staying. There are men whose absence shaped me. And there are men whose presence stitched parts of me back together. Both have left fingerprints on the woman I am becoming. One gave me roots. The other reminded me I could still grow. What I deserve, and how to be loved. Victories I wish could have been witnessed. Versions of me that never got introduced. Grief is strange like that. It doesn't always ask to be noticed. Sometimes it simply sits beside celebration, smiling through watery eyes. And somehow, love makes room for both. Today, I think of the men who father quietly. The ones who never asked for recognition. Who offered guidance before opinions. Who ...
