I Miss The Man I’ve Never Met
By: Edie Tuck
Tags: Parenthood, Hope, Fatherhood, Life, Family

My story isn’t one I’ve told many people — writing these words here, for the world to see, is both terrifying and freeing. If you’re reading this, it’s because I’ve found the courage to hit that ‘publish’ button.

Mine isn’t a happy tale — it almost didn’t happen at all.

My parents were both living and working away from home in their early twenties — my mother as a night clerk in a hotel/bus depot/tavern, my father as a drywall installer. They both lived in the employee wing of the hotel. My mother barely spoke English — My father didn’t speak a word of French. But love is the universal language, right?

All I’ve ever had are little stories from my mother about who he was — the kind of man he was; funny, awkward, romantic, sweet. He could sing like a bird and he snored like a chainsaw. She said that’s where I got it from — the singing. The snoring too — but I think she’s as much to blame for that one. And my blue eyes, she said they were his too.

One night, only three months into their whirlwind romance, too much alcohol was consumed. Things happened that shouldn’t have happened. Because of it, I almost didn’t happen. I think my father hated himself for what he did, even though my mother never did. I never did.

She never dated, other than a couple of blind dates on which she ended up taking me along. She never married — she never even slept with a man. My whole life, it was her and I. And my whole life, I longed for more.

As a child, I would make up these fantasies in my mind where we would magically find each other, and we would laugh, and cry and he would spin me around in a twirling hug the way daddies do with their little girls. That never happened.

As a teenager, I would watch talk shows where long lost children and parents would be reunited on television. I imagined myself in one of those big chairs, the host asking me about my childhood and then asking me to look into camera 1 and ask my dad to come, should he be out there, watching. And then there he would be, standing in the front row — and again there were tearful hugs followed by lifelong memories.

As a young adult, I scoured this new thing called the internet, searching in towns and cities all across the province for anyone sharing his name. I wrote and mailed countless letters. Sent them off with self-addressed stamped envelopes so they wouldn’t have to pay to reply — and every letter that dropped in the mailbox was sent with the fervent hope that it would reach the right person. A handful came back. They weren’t my father, but they wished me luck in my search.

When social media became mainstream, my search widened. This time, my mother joined me, and together, we clicked on dozens upon dozens of possible matches. Messages were sent to those who were a maybe, and again the ‘good luck’ notes came back from some — radio silence from others.

Now I’m almost forty years old — my daughter is turning twenty in less than a month. In my mind, I still feel like I’m twenty-five. And although I’ve never given up hope, that hope dims a little more with each year that passes. Because as I get older, I know he does too. And I can’t help but think that after all this time, maybe it just isn’t meant to be. Maybe he doesn’t want to know me — or maybe he’s still too ashamed to.

But still, I hope. And I dream. That one day, I’ll get to cry tears of unadulterated joy as I wrap my arms around this man I’ve never met, and say I love you, daddy.