Bookoffee
Platinum Member
My elderly father was admitted to the hospital and I am having a difficult time making a decision to see him. I had to write tonight to get my feelers out. I had to see the picture and write our story together. So I wrote three pages of our relationship.
If you have the time to read a story about Father/Daughter, please take the time to read. Advice is very much welcomed.
Here is our story:
I spent the first eight years of my life thinking that my mother’s children and I had the same father. When I was told that he was not my father, we were in a therapy session that was being video taped. I crumbled. Everything went black. My ears were ringing. I didn’t understand.
It took me a while to compose myself. Then I started to ask questions. I learned that my biological father and mother had an affair together while they were both married. He has ten children with his wife. When I was two, he continued to stay with his wife and my mother divorced her children’s father. I didn’t see him again until I was eleven.
My mother and I were homeless and living in a car. We traveled to visit her mother. The night we arrived, my mother asked me if I would like to meet my father. I had spent the last three years praying and hoping that he would save me from the terror I lived in. Every time I passed his house, it was a knife through my heart. I wanted to live in that huge house on the hill with the in ground pool, tennis court and 18-hole golf course. A house full of love with a caring mother and father, brothers and sisters that got along and everyone loved each other. So much fun family time. It was a dream. Of course I wanted to meet him!
Everything was a blur after he agreed to come and meet me that night. I was in the bathroom getting ready when he arrived. I think that may have been the first time I actually saw myself in the mirror and looked back at a smile on my face.
I walked out and this man that was my grandfather’s age or even older was standing in the kitchen, perfect image of Kenny Rogers. My heart skipped a beat and I was full of joy. He said hi to me and shook my hand. He asked my mother if we should go to the beach and get an ice cream. I didn’t care where we went, I was full of questions and emotions.
When we all got into the car, I wanted to sit in the front with my father and start asking questions. My mother wouldn’t me. She sat in the front and the two of them asked questions about each other. I sat in the back seat staring at the scenery, trying to hold back my tears.
When we arrived at the beach, we went right to the ice cream shop and he bought me my first black raspberry with chocolate chips. Still my favorite today. I picked up a shell that was on sale and I loved it so he bought it for me. The rest of the evening they walked ahead of me, holding hands and talking. Every once in a while I would get a head turn with a smile. I think there may had been a question or two.
The next day my mother told me that we were flying out to Iowa to live next to her daughter. My father was going to fly with us and live with us while we were there. I would say I was indifferent but the small child that always wanted that perfect family with him was starting to come together. Maybe he would be more interested in me if we lived together.
When we moved to Iowa, I spent most of my time with friends, laundromats, tunnels and a bar that I knew the owner of. My parents were living together, something I never thought possible and I had to stay out of the house because they couldn’t use the bedroom for their excessive intercourse.
About a month later, he was gone. He left me a goodbye card, a calling card, a small pink rose and a small red rose. My mother’s abusive ex boyfriend was sitting in the same chair my father sat in that very morning.
He wanted us to move to Arizona. I fought the whole way that I was not living with him again considering the last time the three of us were together he almost killed us. My mother wouldn’t hear of it and dragged me to Arizona. When she tried to enroll me into school, I scream and swore the entire time. The school rejected my enrollment. I used my calling card that my father left me and was calling everyone I knew to let me live with them. I can’t remember how everything came together, but my father agreed for me to live with him in Maine.
Still at the age of eleven, my mother put me on a Greyhound bus from Arizona to Maine, while they were on strike. I had to spend the night in the New York City terminal with protesters, cops, guns, screaming. I meet my father at the Boston Greyhound terminal. I remember seeing him and feeling relieved. We drove back to Maine mostly in silence.
While I lived with him, his children refused to have a relationship with him. They never called or came over. One afternoon I answered the telephone and a male called asking to talk with his father. I answered that he was not home. There was a small pause and a thousand questions swarmed around my head. I wanted to ask him if he was my brother. My throat hurt and tears formed in my eyes. Then it happened, a noise, the phone on the other end hung up.
My father and I avoided each other as much as we could. I spent most of my time exploring the house and grounds. I was in his bar until I got sick, starving myself, smoking and I am sure there is more. When he enrolled me in school and when people would ask who I am, he would tell them I was the daughter of an old friend. One of the teachers that my father’s children had, asked me before he introduced me to the class how did we meet.I told him I was his daughter. The teacher face was in full shock. All he could do was say “oh” “um” then stood there and open a book. I stood there for a minute because it was my first day of class and I didn’t know anyone or where to sit.
I can’t remember details of what happened a few months later. Someone found a syringe on a school bus and I was blamed for it. It wasn’t mine, needles scare me to this day My locker was striped and they found cigarettes and alcohol in my locker. I was suspended and the state welfare services did a home visit. I had to be removed from his house. If a family member didn’t claim me then I would go into foster care.
My mother’s mother agreed for me to live with her. We connected right away and I felt a special bond with her. There were a few times a family member of my father’s would come over to ask questions and talk with my grandmother. My grandmother would make me stay in her bedroom and wouldn't let me in the kitchen while they talked. There would be times I would sneak a quick peek just to see what they look like and if we had the same hair and/or body structure.
We got along for about a year or more. Even though I was in a stable home, I was still angry, lonely, confused and completely lost. I was getting in trouble in school, hanging around with much older kids,and lying to grandmother about where I was after school when I was in detention.
My grandmother was contacted about my behavior and found my diet pills. I don’t know who contacted her, the school, the state? She looked at me with such disappointment and disbelief, she told me she would have never expected something like this from me. She stopped talking to me for a few weeks. She refused to be in the same room as me. The day she didn’t rush out of the room I entered, she got enough strength to tell I was moving on to a different place.
When I was around nineteen, I called my father for the first time since I was removed from his house. He answered my call. I asked him if we could meet in a public area, I would like to hear about his family and his upbringing. He told me no that it would be best for us to keep things the way they are.
I would see him in passing or hear something about him or his family. I was with an aunt of mine in a store. She saw a friend of hers and they started to talk. The way they were talking I thought they were close friends. Then her friend started to ask me a couple of questions. I answered them wondering who she was and how she knew things about me. Once we separated, I asked my aunt who she was speaking with. She told me she was my sister. I felt like I was kick in the stomach, why wouldn’t they tell me?
When I was in my early thirties, I was helping my mother with her dying husband. While I was staying with her, I received a phone call from a brother from my father. He wanted to meet me. I was excited. Somehow I held onto my dream of a loving and caring family.
We meet and talked, asked questions, played with his grandchildren. A few days later I meet one of my sisters. She tells me that she always knew I was her sister, she loved me, how much she enjoyed when her mother would babysit me because her daughter, who is older than me, would always play together. She always knew that I was in an abusive situation and always regretted for not adopting me.
My father and the rest of his children refuse to accept me into their family unless there is a DNA test completed. My sister agreed to pay for it and we had our DNA matched at 99%. It took a few years for everyone to start to meet me. My sister that “loved” me had her mother living with her so I was not allowed there. Which happens to be everyone’s hang out. The only time I could meet with my new sisters, I had to arraign a dinner date. There was a couple of times that my sister would call to tell me that she was bringing my father to his girlfriend’s and would arrange to meet at certain place, park my car and drive the rest of the way together.
After a while, her mother agreed to allow me in the house. When I walked around the corner and she saw me, she jumped out of her skin. She thought I was my mother. I would continue to visit here and there throughout a few years. I was invited to a few events.
Every time I was with them, I felt out of place. Conversations were envious and painful. I closed inward and tried to avoid as much conversation as I could. I was just there for the hug and kiss.
I have been pulling away from them because it is getting harder and harder to be around them. I feel so fake. During the same time, my father starts to develop dementia and need in home care. I haven’t seen anyone since my wedding two years ago. I was invited to a few events, agreed to go but panic when it came and couldn't leave my house for days.
A couple of days ago, my father was admitted to the hospital with what I read on facebook an infection. I texted my sister to ask her questions. On Tuesday she told me what hospital and room he is in. I have been pondering about going to see him.
Today I received a text from a brother that I have had a couple of conversations with. I wouldn’t recognize him in a crowd. He told me that my father was in the hospital and wanted to know where I lived.
A part of me wants to go to say goodbye to my ‘father’ and too my childhood image I had and still hold today. I still have the shell and roses placed in a clear round fish bowl
I am toren. I am not sure if I want to go because I don’t want to regret it later in life. I don’t want his children to think I am a horrible selfish person. I don’t want to feel like filth, like my mother. I need advice.
If you have the time to read a story about Father/Daughter, please take the time to read. Advice is very much welcomed.
Here is our story:
I spent the first eight years of my life thinking that my mother’s children and I had the same father. When I was told that he was not my father, we were in a therapy session that was being video taped. I crumbled. Everything went black. My ears were ringing. I didn’t understand.
It took me a while to compose myself. Then I started to ask questions. I learned that my biological father and mother had an affair together while they were both married. He has ten children with his wife. When I was two, he continued to stay with his wife and my mother divorced her children’s father. I didn’t see him again until I was eleven.
My mother and I were homeless and living in a car. We traveled to visit her mother. The night we arrived, my mother asked me if I would like to meet my father. I had spent the last three years praying and hoping that he would save me from the terror I lived in. Every time I passed his house, it was a knife through my heart. I wanted to live in that huge house on the hill with the in ground pool, tennis court and 18-hole golf course. A house full of love with a caring mother and father, brothers and sisters that got along and everyone loved each other. So much fun family time. It was a dream. Of course I wanted to meet him!
Everything was a blur after he agreed to come and meet me that night. I was in the bathroom getting ready when he arrived. I think that may have been the first time I actually saw myself in the mirror and looked back at a smile on my face.
I walked out and this man that was my grandfather’s age or even older was standing in the kitchen, perfect image of Kenny Rogers. My heart skipped a beat and I was full of joy. He said hi to me and shook my hand. He asked my mother if we should go to the beach and get an ice cream. I didn’t care where we went, I was full of questions and emotions.
When we all got into the car, I wanted to sit in the front with my father and start asking questions. My mother wouldn’t me. She sat in the front and the two of them asked questions about each other. I sat in the back seat staring at the scenery, trying to hold back my tears.
When we arrived at the beach, we went right to the ice cream shop and he bought me my first black raspberry with chocolate chips. Still my favorite today. I picked up a shell that was on sale and I loved it so he bought it for me. The rest of the evening they walked ahead of me, holding hands and talking. Every once in a while I would get a head turn with a smile. I think there may had been a question or two.
The next day my mother told me that we were flying out to Iowa to live next to her daughter. My father was going to fly with us and live with us while we were there. I would say I was indifferent but the small child that always wanted that perfect family with him was starting to come together. Maybe he would be more interested in me if we lived together.
When we moved to Iowa, I spent most of my time with friends, laundromats, tunnels and a bar that I knew the owner of. My parents were living together, something I never thought possible and I had to stay out of the house because they couldn’t use the bedroom for their excessive intercourse.
About a month later, he was gone. He left me a goodbye card, a calling card, a small pink rose and a small red rose. My mother’s abusive ex boyfriend was sitting in the same chair my father sat in that very morning.
He wanted us to move to Arizona. I fought the whole way that I was not living with him again considering the last time the three of us were together he almost killed us. My mother wouldn’t hear of it and dragged me to Arizona. When she tried to enroll me into school, I scream and swore the entire time. The school rejected my enrollment. I used my calling card that my father left me and was calling everyone I knew to let me live with them. I can’t remember how everything came together, but my father agreed for me to live with him in Maine.
Still at the age of eleven, my mother put me on a Greyhound bus from Arizona to Maine, while they were on strike. I had to spend the night in the New York City terminal with protesters, cops, guns, screaming. I meet my father at the Boston Greyhound terminal. I remember seeing him and feeling relieved. We drove back to Maine mostly in silence.
While I lived with him, his children refused to have a relationship with him. They never called or came over. One afternoon I answered the telephone and a male called asking to talk with his father. I answered that he was not home. There was a small pause and a thousand questions swarmed around my head. I wanted to ask him if he was my brother. My throat hurt and tears formed in my eyes. Then it happened, a noise, the phone on the other end hung up.
My father and I avoided each other as much as we could. I spent most of my time exploring the house and grounds. I was in his bar until I got sick, starving myself, smoking and I am sure there is more. When he enrolled me in school and when people would ask who I am, he would tell them I was the daughter of an old friend. One of the teachers that my father’s children had, asked me before he introduced me to the class how did we meet.I told him I was his daughter. The teacher face was in full shock. All he could do was say “oh” “um” then stood there and open a book. I stood there for a minute because it was my first day of class and I didn’t know anyone or where to sit.
I can’t remember details of what happened a few months later. Someone found a syringe on a school bus and I was blamed for it. It wasn’t mine, needles scare me to this day My locker was striped and they found cigarettes and alcohol in my locker. I was suspended and the state welfare services did a home visit. I had to be removed from his house. If a family member didn’t claim me then I would go into foster care.
My mother’s mother agreed for me to live with her. We connected right away and I felt a special bond with her. There were a few times a family member of my father’s would come over to ask questions and talk with my grandmother. My grandmother would make me stay in her bedroom and wouldn't let me in the kitchen while they talked. There would be times I would sneak a quick peek just to see what they look like and if we had the same hair and/or body structure.
We got along for about a year or more. Even though I was in a stable home, I was still angry, lonely, confused and completely lost. I was getting in trouble in school, hanging around with much older kids,and lying to grandmother about where I was after school when I was in detention.
My grandmother was contacted about my behavior and found my diet pills. I don’t know who contacted her, the school, the state? She looked at me with such disappointment and disbelief, she told me she would have never expected something like this from me. She stopped talking to me for a few weeks. She refused to be in the same room as me. The day she didn’t rush out of the room I entered, she got enough strength to tell I was moving on to a different place.
When I was around nineteen, I called my father for the first time since I was removed from his house. He answered my call. I asked him if we could meet in a public area, I would like to hear about his family and his upbringing. He told me no that it would be best for us to keep things the way they are.
I would see him in passing or hear something about him or his family. I was with an aunt of mine in a store. She saw a friend of hers and they started to talk. The way they were talking I thought they were close friends. Then her friend started to ask me a couple of questions. I answered them wondering who she was and how she knew things about me. Once we separated, I asked my aunt who she was speaking with. She told me she was my sister. I felt like I was kick in the stomach, why wouldn’t they tell me?
When I was in my early thirties, I was helping my mother with her dying husband. While I was staying with her, I received a phone call from a brother from my father. He wanted to meet me. I was excited. Somehow I held onto my dream of a loving and caring family.
We meet and talked, asked questions, played with his grandchildren. A few days later I meet one of my sisters. She tells me that she always knew I was her sister, she loved me, how much she enjoyed when her mother would babysit me because her daughter, who is older than me, would always play together. She always knew that I was in an abusive situation and always regretted for not adopting me.
My father and the rest of his children refuse to accept me into their family unless there is a DNA test completed. My sister agreed to pay for it and we had our DNA matched at 99%. It took a few years for everyone to start to meet me. My sister that “loved” me had her mother living with her so I was not allowed there. Which happens to be everyone’s hang out. The only time I could meet with my new sisters, I had to arraign a dinner date. There was a couple of times that my sister would call to tell me that she was bringing my father to his girlfriend’s and would arrange to meet at certain place, park my car and drive the rest of the way together.
After a while, her mother agreed to allow me in the house. When I walked around the corner and she saw me, she jumped out of her skin. She thought I was my mother. I would continue to visit here and there throughout a few years. I was invited to a few events.
Every time I was with them, I felt out of place. Conversations were envious and painful. I closed inward and tried to avoid as much conversation as I could. I was just there for the hug and kiss.
I have been pulling away from them because it is getting harder and harder to be around them. I feel so fake. During the same time, my father starts to develop dementia and need in home care. I haven’t seen anyone since my wedding two years ago. I was invited to a few events, agreed to go but panic when it came and couldn't leave my house for days.
A couple of days ago, my father was admitted to the hospital with what I read on facebook an infection. I texted my sister to ask her questions. On Tuesday she told me what hospital and room he is in. I have been pondering about going to see him.
Today I received a text from a brother that I have had a couple of conversations with. I wouldn’t recognize him in a crowd. He told me that my father was in the hospital and wanted to know where I lived.
A part of me wants to go to say goodbye to my ‘father’ and too my childhood image I had and still hold today. I still have the shell and roses placed in a clear round fish bowl
I am toren. I am not sure if I want to go because I don’t want to regret it later in life. I don’t want his children to think I am a horrible selfish person. I don’t want to feel like filth, like my mother. I need advice.
Last edited:
