Happy Father’s Day, Wherever You Are

Mom and Dad divorced when I was six years old. Before the divorce was final, Dad kidnapped Rose and me and took us to live with his Hungarian mother in South Bend, Indiana, a good distance from our home in North Chicago. Mom drove through the night, climbed a ladder to our open second-story bedroom window, woke us, and then drove us to her parents’ farm in southern Illinois. It was only a few days before Dad picked us up and drove us back to his mom’s place. After a bitter court battle, my dad was awarded full custody of my older sister, Rose, with no visitation rights for Mom and us. My little brother, Jimmy, and I ended up living on the farm with our grandparents while Mom stayed in Chicago, worked to save enough money, and bought a small home so we could be a family again.

We lived on that farm for seven years. My childhood memories are filled with Sunday family gatherings where everyone enjoyed Grandma’s cooking, fried chicken, homemade egg noodles, fresh veggies from the garden, and Angel Food cake for dessert. Oh, and the tallest yeast rolls I’ve ever seen. My mouth waters every time I think of them. My cousins and I would swim in that old, dirty Wabash River, eat watermelons straight off the vine, and catch ladybugs at sunset.

I didn’t realize until later in life that my sister Rose was not so fortunate. Her new life with her dad and stepmom was tough. As soon as her two half-brothers came along, she became the babysitter, housekeeper, and cook. We were reunited when Dad died. I was thirteen, and Rose was fifteen. I remember staring at her at Dad’s funeral, thinking she was the most beautiful teenager I had ever seen. I expected she would take one look at me and laugh at my farm-girl country ways. But she embraced me so tightly that those feelings faded. Her stepmom understood when Rose told her she was going to live with her real mom, and I was overwhelmed with pride.

My brother and I didn’t shed a single tear when we looked into the casket of a man who had abandoned us when we were so young. Never a birthday card or a phone call throughout those seven years. It’s hard to believe a father could disown his own children like that. We never did anything to him other than be born.

I felt a void where my father should have been, especially on Father’s Day. All my friends talked about their dads, but I could only imagine what mine was like.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, wherever you are. I used to hope you’d look down through the clouds and say, “Thank you. You’re a fine lady. You did well without me.” But somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting for that. The farm raised me. Grandma fed me. Rose held me. Mom taught me resilience. And I turned out just fine, no thanks to you. I already know.

Bobbie Bennett