Dear Failure as a Father,
No, it’s not my fault.
I didn’t take my car keys and my wallet and my phone and drive you off 1248 miles to Utah, walking away from my job, my kids, and my spouse.
- ignore texts, Facebook messages, emails, and phone calls
- ignore voice messages from my daughters
- fail to contact my children even after the police notified me that I was the subject of a missing persons report
- take off with my paycheck and fail to pay the bills to help my two little girls
- withhold any contact information from my daughters
- go for weeks without even attempting to initiate contact with my daughters
- completely change my profile on Facebook, creating a new name for myself and trying to have a porn star lifestyle
- fail to communicate with my two little girls for months
- default and fail to appear in court for the proceedings for my divorce to have any say in the support of or access to my children
- ignore any child support mandated by the courts
- limit Christmas for my daughters to a greeting card and a magazine subscription – from a new nickname they’d never heard of before
- limit my birthday gift to my oldest daughter to $20 cash and a card
- fail to appear in court for my final divorce proceedings
- completely and wholly default in the matter of my divorce, including any say in access to my children
- neglect to try to see my children in March when I was back in the state
- go for months without trying to communicate to my daughters
- fail to try to negotiate a time to see my children in June when I was back in the state
- limit my younger daughter’s birthday gift to a greeting card and a $25 gift card
- again fail to contact my children for months
- give excuses about why I couldn’t provide child support when I finally got a job
- oh, and whine about it on Facebook
- provide even more excuses why I couldn’t pay anything to help when my younger daughter had to go into braces
- fail to bring anything for my daughters when I finally saw them in October, nearly a year after I’d left
- fail to purchase anything for my girls at McDonald’s when I “went out to lunch” with them
- take stalker-esque photos of my daughters and my ex instead of asking them to be in a photograph
- tell my children that I was inventing a flying car and a flying suit and a flying bicycle
- start the most psycho email barrage ever, accusing my ex of neglecting the children
- email old neighbors, asking them to go behind my ex’s back to email me
- fail to attempt to communicate directly with my children before acting like a sociopath
- tell my children I’d write to them every week, only to have it peter off to an occasional email
- fail to provide a working phone number to my children for 14 months
- write emails that do not focus on my daughters but instead on me
- fail to respond to what my daughters write to me
- write to my children that I’m now developing suits for firefighters
- send my older daughter a birthday message on the wrong day
- cop out of sending my daughter a birthday present by asking her to tell me what she didn’t get – not even up front asking “What would you like for your birthday?” but “What didn’t you get that you wanted?”
- record and send a video that had sound quality so poor my daughter couldn’t understand what I was saying – oh, and have it saved sideways, too
- blame my ex for sharing the birthday message the day it was sent
Therefore, I fail to see how any of the quagmire you’ve created can legitimately be placed on my shoulders.
You walked away.
You continued to walk away.
You failed to treat the girls and me with respect.
And yet it is my fault? Yet you blame me for it all? You take no responsibility for any of the hurt or pain or hardship; you fail even to acknowledge that your leaving caused turmoil. Instead, in all things, you place the blame squarely on my shoulders.
Because I got the better end of the deal.
I got the kids.
I don’t accept responsibility for your actions, but I claim full responsibility for my daughters. I am their parent. I am their guide, their role model, their influence.
I am their MOM.