Bridget. This is one of the most honest, achingly beautiful pieces of writing I’ve read in a very long time. You have done something so few writers can do — you’ve held the love and the wound in the same hand, refused to flatten either one, and let the reader feel the full geometry of what it means to be a child of an unavailable father. The potential dad. The one you secretly claimed. The one who “in his absence explained everything that was unexplained in me.” That line will live in me for a long time.
What strikes me most is the absence of contempt. You have every right to it — and you do not reach for it. You let your father be exactly what he was… a man who fought harder for a painting than for his children, who could filet a fish in three swift cuts, who left a piece of himself in your obsession with Hemingway and in the smell of beer that once felt like home. That kind of writing — the kind that refuses to make a villain or a saint out of a complicated man — is some of the most important work being done anywhere right now. It is the work that lets the rest of us breathe.
The families we walk alongside at know this terrain. So many of the children we serve are building their own potential dad in the silence — the one stowed safely away from a mother’s hurt, a grandparent’s disapproval, a teacher’s pity. The one who might show up one day. The one whose absence is doing the explaining. Your piece is a gift to every one of them, and to every adult who is still carrying the child who waited.
You climbed into that hospital bed. You whispered him free. You pushed the morphine button. That is love in its most demanding form — the kind that asks nothing of the beloved in return, that simply releases. Blackbird, fly. Incredible.
Thank you for this. For all of those still learning how to grieve the fathers they never quite had.
So many flashes of recognition for me in this. The absent father — even when he was present he’d lock himself away. The alcohol & cigarettes, the outdoorsman, the image of Hemingway his shadow. I remember him once tying flies for trout fishing.
And also dead too early, though his death was sudden & unexpected, as if struck by lightning and gone. I know the setting: the woods, the inland lakes and rivers, and of course the vast horizon of Lake Michigan.
Dads and Daughter...such a complicated relationship...it's a love/hate push/pull creation. Yours was a beautiful description...it makes me want to put mine down on paper as well. Thank you for sharing.
We all need to get it out, complicated or not. I was sitting in a doctor's office today and Landslide by Fleetwood Mac came on... we all feel it, good or bad or something in between. I hope you write your story.
I share many of the same experiences of hoping for something more from my father. I’m sorry you didn’t have him growing up in a way only someone who’s lived it can. Every kid needs a dad.
In so many ways, socially, dads are viewed as optional—and yet they are anything but. They have an outsized power to wound even (and especially) when they do nothing at all. Lovely writing and a very relatable story.
Captivating and beautiful. When you said, "my potential dad" that makes so much sense. There is so much love and heartbreak in this piece. Bridget, thank you for sharing this story of you and your dad. I look forward to reading more. 🤗
I enjoy your writing. Not because it’s about you, especially, but because it’s about life. Pain, disappointment, and endless examining of the sparse facts. You do an elegant job of sharing without demanding a reaction.
My dad died 3 years ago. Though we were close I definitely did not have an idyllic childhood, my brother left early, my parents fought constantly, I drank my 20’s and 30’s away thus pretty much erasing most memories of my childhood. Yet my Dad still stands out just as you describe yours. The summers fishing with my Dad, the swearing, the constant cigarette, the singing and dancing by campfire. His death has left a space that I’m still figuring out how to claim. I guess I just wanted to say; your post was beautiful, thank you.
Wow....your talent amazes me, such realness and depth. Thank you for your raw honesty. And....that photo of your Dad holding up his catch, looks just like your boy!
Oh my goodness 😭💕 this is so beautiful and heartbreaking all at the same time. Someone else said it - you hold the love and wound together. Thank you for sharing your heart.
"In my late teens, the smell of beer on a man’s breath was oddly attractive, and a waft of cigarette smoke connected me to something I wanted—something wild in me." Uh huh. I get it. Unfortunately, I get it.
Such an eloquent way to remember your dad, with all of the harshness and roughness that came along with it. There’s something about those wild dads that we all seek in our own fathers. I think we cling to that because it’s an escape—a way of looking up to him for something other than what we are supposed to look up to him for. Moms can be like this too. But that wild hair in a parent is sometimes the only way we know how to connect with them—especially when we don’t have other ways to meaningfully connect.
It is sad what we remember as children,,,, whew, they shape us in good ways and bad. Thanks for sharing and writing this memory. I’m sorry for your loss but I’m sure your Dad is proud of you despite his bad choices,,,,, no doubt he was a broken hurt person that could not rise above his own childhood circumstances.
The Golden Rule - Matthew 7:12; So,, whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them. ❤️
I’ve now read this three times and will likely read it again. I’ve found new contemplations with each read. The questions, creation of the ideal dad, one of the most difficult, self-less life decisions-all of it woven together with such care.
Bridget. This is one of the most honest, achingly beautiful pieces of writing I’ve read in a very long time. You have done something so few writers can do — you’ve held the love and the wound in the same hand, refused to flatten either one, and let the reader feel the full geometry of what it means to be a child of an unavailable father. The potential dad. The one you secretly claimed. The one who “in his absence explained everything that was unexplained in me.” That line will live in me for a long time.
What strikes me most is the absence of contempt. You have every right to it — and you do not reach for it. You let your father be exactly what he was… a man who fought harder for a painting than for his children, who could filet a fish in three swift cuts, who left a piece of himself in your obsession with Hemingway and in the smell of beer that once felt like home. That kind of writing — the kind that refuses to make a villain or a saint out of a complicated man — is some of the most important work being done anywhere right now. It is the work that lets the rest of us breathe.
The families we walk alongside at know this terrain. So many of the children we serve are building their own potential dad in the silence — the one stowed safely away from a mother’s hurt, a grandparent’s disapproval, a teacher’s pity. The one who might show up one day. The one whose absence is doing the explaining. Your piece is a gift to every one of them, and to every adult who is still carrying the child who waited.
You climbed into that hospital bed. You whispered him free. You pushed the morphine button. That is love in its most demanding form — the kind that asks nothing of the beloved in return, that simply releases. Blackbird, fly. Incredible.
Thank you for this. For all of those still learning how to grieve the fathers they never quite had.
Thank you, always, for reflecting my story. You connect it so well to others.
Hi Bridget,
So many flashes of recognition for me in this. The absent father — even when he was present he’d lock himself away. The alcohol & cigarettes, the outdoorsman, the image of Hemingway his shadow. I remember him once tying flies for trout fishing.
And also dead too early, though his death was sudden & unexpected, as if struck by lightning and gone. I know the setting: the woods, the inland lakes and rivers, and of course the vast horizon of Lake Michigan.
Well, shoot, we're kindred. 🖤
Dads and Daughter...such a complicated relationship...it's a love/hate push/pull creation. Yours was a beautiful description...it makes me want to put mine down on paper as well. Thank you for sharing.
We all need to get it out, complicated or not. I was sitting in a doctor's office today and Landslide by Fleetwood Mac came on... we all feel it, good or bad or something in between. I hope you write your story.
What is it about “Landslide”? It takes our breathe away.
I share many of the same experiences of hoping for something more from my father. I’m sorry you didn’t have him growing up in a way only someone who’s lived it can. Every kid needs a dad.
I'm sorry you know-know. It's a shame they couldn't and didn't do whatever they needed to be present. May you find healing in this lifetime.
Working on it.
In so many ways, socially, dads are viewed as optional—and yet they are anything but. They have an outsized power to wound even (and especially) when they do nothing at all. Lovely writing and a very relatable story.
Thanks, Hailey. I am oddly comforted and deeply broken that this impacts so so many of us.
Captivating and beautiful. When you said, "my potential dad" that makes so much sense. There is so much love and heartbreak in this piece. Bridget, thank you for sharing this story of you and your dad. I look forward to reading more. 🤗
I enjoy your writing. Not because it’s about you, especially, but because it’s about life. Pain, disappointment, and endless examining of the sparse facts. You do an elegant job of sharing without demanding a reaction.
This comment means a lot. Thank you.
Bridget,
My dad died 3 years ago. Though we were close I definitely did not have an idyllic childhood, my brother left early, my parents fought constantly, I drank my 20’s and 30’s away thus pretty much erasing most memories of my childhood. Yet my Dad still stands out just as you describe yours. The summers fishing with my Dad, the swearing, the constant cigarette, the singing and dancing by campfire. His death has left a space that I’m still figuring out how to claim. I guess I just wanted to say; your post was beautiful, thank you.
Awww, thank you for telling me this. CS Lewis said that we read to know that we are not alone. I write for the same reason. Thanks for finding it. 🖤
Stunning. I know this walk. Heartline.
reading and feeling this in my soul…. beautifully 💔 broken….🙏🏻
love you
Wow....your talent amazes me, such realness and depth. Thank you for your raw honesty. And....that photo of your Dad holding up his catch, looks just like your boy!
Thank you, friend. Always.
Oh my goodness 😭💕 this is so beautiful and heartbreaking all at the same time. Someone else said it - you hold the love and wound together. Thank you for sharing your heart.
Thanks for saying so, Jenna.
"In my late teens, the smell of beer on a man’s breath was oddly attractive, and a waft of cigarette smoke connected me to something I wanted—something wild in me." Uh huh. I get it. Unfortunately, I get it.
Yup. Crazy what we map onto.... 😉
Such an eloquent way to remember your dad, with all of the harshness and roughness that came along with it. There’s something about those wild dads that we all seek in our own fathers. I think we cling to that because it’s an escape—a way of looking up to him for something other than what we are supposed to look up to him for. Moms can be like this too. But that wild hair in a parent is sometimes the only way we know how to connect with them—especially when we don’t have other ways to meaningfully connect.
Wild dads. That's well put, and you're right... it's really all I ever knew. Wildness is in our veins. 🖤
Brilliant & sobering. Thank you.
Thanks, Tim. 🖤
It is sad what we remember as children,,,, whew, they shape us in good ways and bad. Thanks for sharing and writing this memory. I’m sorry for your loss but I’m sure your Dad is proud of you despite his bad choices,,,,, no doubt he was a broken hurt person that could not rise above his own childhood circumstances.
The Golden Rule - Matthew 7:12; So,, whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them. ❤️
Indeed. I wish more parents were the parents they needed while growing up. We do the best we know to do.
I’ve now read this three times and will likely read it again. I’ve found new contemplations with each read. The questions, creation of the ideal dad, one of the most difficult, self-less life decisions-all of it woven together with such care.
Thanks, Tammy. 🖤