father.

Some days, I get horrible urges to find him, to mail him a letter and tell him I know who he is, but I don't know him, and he doesn't know me. Some days, I want to ask him why he didn't really try to be a part of my life. I want to know why he never sent me cards or letters, why he didn't show up to my thirteenth birthday when he said he would. I want to know what he looks like, what he used to look like, if he has a family history of cancer or diabetes.
I have this uncontrollable urge to know something. Anything.

There are some things I don't talk about. This is one of them.
It's not necessarily because I feel unusual. I know a good deal of people who went through life with only one parent, or who were adopted, or who grew up with their grandparents or aunts or uncles.

Sometimes, I feel as though I were rejected by him. I was a mistake. He didn't want to have to be involved with me, and so he wasn't going to go out of his way for some little girl he didn't know.
Sometimes, I just feel like I wasn't important. Not important enough to come visit, to write letters to, to send gifts to, to call on occasion.
Sometimes, I think it was his flaw, not mine. He could never have been a good enough man to be my father. He could never have deserved a daughter like me, or the joy me being in his life could have given him.

It's none of those things. It's no one's fault.
This is just how things were meant to be.

So, even though I look him up every once in a while, and even though I could try to write him if I wanted to, I doubt I ever will. As much as it affected me throughout my childhood, it isn't really important.

Don't trust your feelings. Sometimes, they'll make you feel good about getting hurt, and bad about blessings.