A Father’s Day Message: Echoes of Silence
Father's Day dawns with a bittersweet tang. For countless hearts, it's a day awash with tender messages and golden-hued recollections. Social feeds full of odes to fathers—those departed and those standing as unwavering pillars in their children’s lives. Yet, for my children and me, this day resounds with the echo of a poignant void: the presence of a father who is absent despite being very much alive.
My father is an enigma, a shadow figure in the backdrop of my upbringing. My parents' union, nearing its golden jubilee, has been an enduring one. Nonetheless, the split between my father and me grows wide and inscrutable. I clutch at hazy memories: his hands deftly shaping chess pieces, his fingers weaving string into miraculous illusions. He was the embodiment of tradition—stoic, industrious, his evenings reserved for dinner and the nightly news, his preference for our silence rather than our stories. Yet, in rare fleeting instances—perhaps softened by the mirth of spirits or the warmth of festivities—he would unveil a side both playful and wise, brimming with whimsical lore.
At the tender age of fourteen, my world capsized. I found myself lost, placed into care by the very hands that had held me. It was a choice made willingly—a consent signed by both guardians. This act has since lingered like a spectre in my thoughts, leaving me to grapple with my father's part in that pivotal moment. My connection with my mother was fraught with storms; yet as I navigated adulthood's waters, I began to probe the depths of my father's acquiescence—his role in my past and its shadows cast upon my present.
Decades folded into memory until, at thirty, life bloomed within me. With the arrival of my firstborn came an unexpected rekindling—my parents emerged, bearing tokens for the newborn. The chasm of years lay between us; still, I extended the olive branch, yearning for my offspring to know family—a haven I had longed for but never known. For years I endeavoured to weave this fabric of family for my children— the bonds loose but held by hope. Yet perfection eluded us. When danger loomed close in the guise of my childrens father, my own family retreated into familiar shadows.
The severance was crystallised one fateful day—a day when I entrusted my parents with care of my children in my absence. An emergency beckoned; I warned of potential delays. Reassurances were given—yet chaos unfurled. My daughter's voice trembled over the phone: discord had erupted; my father had vanished into the storm; my mother was adrift in her own storm. My sister stepped in, yet the damage had been done.
From that day forth—a day etched in 2017—the silence from my family became deafening. We became phantoms save for fleeting appearances, usually on birthdays or invited gatherings. The last remnant of contact was a February 2020, my birthday, in which I was overcome by pneumonia.
Years have since passed—four years shrouded in tribulations endured in solitude. Despite awareness of our plight, my family chose silence over solace—absence over empathy. Then came an unexpected gesture: a birthday card—a token sum—a summons to celebrate half a century of their union. No words were exchanged—only an unspoken expectation to cloak our scars and partake in their jubilation as if our spirits weren't seared by abandonment.
In this narrative, my mother stands as an overt antagonist; yet it is my father's silence that cuts just as keenly. His essence remains elusive to me; but one truth rings clear—if his heart truly harboured love for his firstborn child, no barrier would deter him. His silence is deafening—it is this silence from which I must seek healing.
The reflection of my children's father mirrors that of my own mother—an agonising parallelism. Merely two years after legal shackles were lifted, he parades his stepchildren as trophies while neglecting his own flesh and blood—a cruel mockery mirroring patterns I've strived to dismantle. The anguish runs deep; yet it ignites within me a fierce determination—to rewrite this legacy for my children.
To break the cycle is to vow that my children shall not inherit the anguish I bore. It would be a grave disservice to allow them to shoulder the legacy of my family's deeds while shielding them from their father's toxic machinations. His schemes—sowing discord among siblings, seeking validation through their eyes—mirror my mother's manipulations. The scars of such psychological warfare are indelible, etching a sense of isolation and a heart torn by duelling allegiances.
For those of us ensnared in these generational snares, days like Father's Day and Mother's Day are not celebrations but Spectres of what was denied to us—the warmth of kinship others so freely revel in. Yet, in voicing my tale, I extend a hand to kindred spirits adrift in this pain, whispering across the void: You are not forsaken. The first step to liberation is to embrace our anguish, draw might from our narratives, and chart a course anew for those who follow.
This Father's Day, I ponder not solely on the quietude of my father but on my resolve to shatter this inherited curse. To stand sentinel for my children, to champion their cause, and to affirm they are cherished, esteemed, and never solitary. It is an odyssey fraught with trials, yet it is one I undertake with fervour. My pledge is to be the guardian who heeds, who uplifts, and who remains steadfast through life's storms.
The voyage of one who defies generational hexes is arduous. It demands confronting harrowing truths, toppling age-old dogmas, and often standing as a solitary beacon against familial tides. But it is a voyage that holds promise. In facing yesteryears' Specters, I lay the foundation for a tomorrow where my progeny may flourish unburdened by shadows of forsakenness and silence.
In this odyssey of healing, I am learning that restoration is not a terminus but an unending passage. It encompasses forgiving my own missteps, extending grace towards those who inflicted wounds, and cultivating the fortitude to press onward. Alongside this inner work blooms the discovery of solidarity—the embrace of souls who tread similar paths and whose resilience kindles my own spirit.
As I traverse this journey, I cling to hope that my endeavours will send forth ripples that transcend my lineage. In shattering the quietude and baring my soul, I aim to embolden others to face their familial spectres, unearth their inner bastions, and create their own legacies of affection and tenacity.
This Father's Day, I salute not only the fathers who shower love and presence but also the silent warriors like myself—those who dare dream of a dawn unshackled from bygone chains. We are the menders of generational rifts, visionaries who dare imagine a luminous tomorrow for our offspring. Within this vision lies hope—a beacon that heals and an enduring bond that defies the sorrows etched by our pasts.
Love, Aquarius Woman xx
