Brotherly love.

My brother and I were never particularly close. 

Close in age, certainly.  We are less than three years apart.  In the photo above, that is me on the left.  My brother is the chubby baby in the Giants onesie on the right.  We are two years and nine months apart, yet you can never imagine two people so different.

My brother and I were brought up in a very abusive household.  Our parents, well-meaning as they might have been, were a non stop source of stress and strife in our little lives.  They fought constantly, every single waking moment of the day and night.  She was a shrew, my mother.  Nagged to the point where you could no longer stand the sound of her voice.  (It still makes me cower a bit when she raises her voice.)  My father, the man I have come to call "the sperm donor", was a self-absorbed, egotistical hippie type who never quite grew up enough to understand that you no longer get to be a "free spirit" once you make the commitment to having a wife and children.  Sure, you can be an individual, but you do not get to live your life as one.  There are three other people in the picture.  Three other people who matter, who count on you and who you need to give thought to before doing the selfish things that stop you from being a part of that family unit.

My father, in something so cliche it embarrasses me to mention, left my mother for his secretary (cringe) back in 1973 when I was merely 7 years old.  Not that this was his first affair, mind you. This was merely the one that "stuck" and the one that finally took this man out of his home and into hers.  There was a part of me that was so grateful when he left.  For years, I had endured listening to their fights that would end up with punches thrown, furniture being flipped over, disgusting and vulgar things said right over my head and the endless tears that my mother would cry each and every time he walked out that door and away from "this bullshit".  I came to feel that I was a part of the "bullshit" he needed to walk away from and, as every child does, began to blame myself for my father leaving.  This was further confirmed when my mother, in moments of distress and uncertainty of her future would say thing like, "he never wanted any kids to begin with."

Great.  Like I ASKED to be born into this?

For years, I resented my father.  Years. Hated him with a fervor and a passion that no little girl should ever have to know.  When I got stuck having to go to his house on the weekends, I was moody, irritable, out of sorts, angry.  I felt deep venom for my mother for leaving me with this man who obviously did not want my brother and I there and truly made us, or at least me, feel like we were cramping his bachelor lifestyle.  He had a girlfriend (the secretary) named Yvonne.  She was a red head. Tall. Thin. Gorgeous.  And their lifestyle consisted of walking around nude all the time.  It's just what they did.  And while that's fine monday through friday, it is probably something that should have been curtailed when your 9 year old daughter and your 6 year old son would come to visit.  They smoked weed.  A LOT of weed.  We were never really "watched" or cared for.  It would make me feel so uncomfortable being in that environment.  I don't think it effected my brother the same way it did me.  He sort of found it all funny...that he got to see "boobies" at Dad's house.  But for me, a young girl on the precipice of my pre-teen years, it made me feel out of sorts.  I used to sit in the loft of his apartment and just get lost in books.  Reading for hours on end til my mother and whatever random flavor of the week she was dating at that time would come and pick us up from his place on the west side of Manhattan. 

As I got older, savvier, I learned how to take the train back from Riverside Drive in Manhattan up to Queens Boulevard in Queens.  I would run away from his apartment, letting myself into my mothers apartment with my key.  (Those of you who were "latchkey" kids would understand why a 10 year old would have her own key to the apartment.)  Most of the time, my mother would not be there.  She'd be out, somewhere, with whomever she was dating.  Sometimes, she would be there with her boyfriend and I would get stuck back on a train, heading back towards Manhattan after listening to my mother screech at my father at the top of her lungs about how the HELL he could not even notice his daughter had disappeared. 

Simple.  He was too stoned most of the time to even notice whether I was alive or not. 

"I thought she was upstairs, reading," he would stammer, trying to stifle his laughter. 

"You're an asshole, piece of shit," she would continue.  Blah blah blah.

This was my world.  The world of the broken home. The world of having two sets parents who were so self-absorbed and involved in their own worlds that they never really saw the magnitude of what they were doing to their children. 

Truth be told, I think the divorce took a much deeper toll on me than it did on my brother.  My brother stayed in touch with "bio dad" long after I made the decision at 11 years old to never see him again.  I hated him, all he stood for and his selfish ways.  The last time I saw my father as a child, it was at my 11th grade graduation.  He showed up, after the ceremony of course, with some flowers.  I took a single photo with him and that is the only memory that I have of him that stands out in my head.  I saw him again, when I turned 19, in a chance meeting at a Florida mall while I was on Spring Break with some girlfriends.  We talked.  Ironed out a few things.  Said some things that needed to be said, but by this time, he was older...the age I am now, actually, and it seemed like life had beaten him up so badly, I couldn't muster up all the venom and rage that 9 year old me wanted to throw upon him.

A mere 6 months after that chance meeting, my father was dead.  Killed by a heart attack caused by cocaine usage.  He was driving on the I-4 interstate when the heart attack occurred. He jumped the median and slammed into a Pepsi tractor trailer going in the opposite direction. 

In my utter distress, in my lack of being able to wrap my head around this...I made a joke out of it.  A morbid joke.  Something to the extent of "this time, Pepsi actually beat out Coke."  No one appreciated the joke.  I was called "insensitive", but I had experienced such a disconnect between me and this man that all I could rely upon was a macabre sense of humor to get me through.

Fast forward to now.  Right now.

My brother is having an affair.  He told me about it.  He didn't need to.  I knew it was going on.  I could tell.  All the tell tale signs were there.  "My wife doesn't understand me," he would say.  He sought my advice and was appalled when I told him to go the hell home and work things out with your wife.  He thought I would have taken his side, told him to go...be happy!  Do your thing!  Live your life!  But as I looked at him, all I could see was my father.  He looks so much like him.  He sounds so much like him.  And in that, he represented everything I ever hated about my own selfish father. 

Recently, his wife found out about his affair.  She called me, crying, asking if he could come down here to stay with me for a few days.  He wanted to "clear his head" before making a decision about whether he would be staying with her or leaving her and her three beautiful children for this girl who "understands him".  Of course, I told her.  Let him come down here.  Let him be with me and my family.  Let him see what a loving family unit is supposed to look like.  Let me talk sense into him.

He came...and it was the worst three days of my life in a very long time.

I have never seen such selfish, self absorbed behavior since my fathers existence on this planet.  He spent the entire weekend texting this girlfriend of his.  He ignored me when I tried to talk to him.  He ignored my kids, my grandkids who he has scarcely seen since they have been born.  All he wanted to do was go out and party.  "What is there to do in this town," he carried on.  "What's good?  Where are the clubs at?  Who's coming out partying with me tonight?" 

And all I saw was my father...and the rage slowly boiled in my blood.

"I thought we were going to have some family time," I said.

"Yeah.  Yeah, of course.  We'll have family time.  But it's the weekend.  So, let's get this party going!  Where's the Hard Rock?  Let's go gambling!  I got a grand burning a hole in my pocket.  Let's do this."

Not the faintest hint of moral dilemma in his eyes.  No thought to his grieving wife back at home.  No thought to his three children, ages 9 through 13, who are suffering right now, listening to mommy cry at night as they go to bed.  The three of them acutely aware of what their father did...but having to suffer the consequence of his insanely selfish actions.  There was a lot of arguing between my brother and I. I would try to talk to him, try to get his face out of his phone and off the texting that was going on between him and this random girl (who, incidentally, DOES know my sister in law and apparently, does not care about sleeping with her husband).  I tried to keep my brother focused. 

"Go to the mall with your nephew," I told him.  "He's missed you.  Go spend time with him."

My son reported back to me that Uncle spent his entire time at the mall walking alongside him with his face buried in the phone.  We went out for dinner.  Same thing.  Out for breakfast with family. Same thing.  Went to go visit my husbands family.  Same thing.  Face buried in that phone...no consideration to any one else.

And I finally exploded.

My brother declared he had to "get the fuck outta here".  Apparently, the whore that he had taken up with was giving him ultimatums about coming home.  He was pacing the floors, gotta go gotta go gotta go gotta go.  Change my ticket change my ticket change my ticket now now now now now now.  It was around then that I released the wrath of 9 year old me all over him.  Everything that 9 year old me ever wanted to say to that stupid, selfish, piece of shit father of mine came flying out of my mouth.  Only now, it was 45 year old me, screaming it at my baby brother...who looks like the man, acts like the man.  We fought ferociously to the point where he was punching the dashboard of my car, jumping out of it in the middle of the highway and me, considering throwing my truck in reverse to run him over and leave him to join the same fate as his father...dying under the wheels of a truck.  All of a sudden, that wild rush came through me...and the fury was too huge to fight.  I couldn't contain it any longer and in that instant, I wanted him to die...and I wanted ME to the be the one who put him in that box.  I wanted him to suffer for the things he did to me, but it wasn't him. It was my father. I wanted him to suffer for the things I knew he was about to put my beautiful niece through.  She is now the same 9 year old little desperate girl that I was at the time, and I knew what lay before her.  I walked this road before...and I felt so justified in just removing my brother from this world to spare her all the pain.  Let her father die while she still loves him and still wants him in her life.  Let him just die that way...before she grows up hating him, blaming him for every failed relationship in her life.  Never trusting men ever again because she couldn't trust the one who gave her life.  I just wanted to hear his body under the tires of my truck as I rolled over him again and again and again.

Fast forward once more.

I am at home.  He is gone, back on an airplane New York bound, on the way to ruin the innocent lives of my precious niece and my two nephews.  On the way home to destroy whatever little is left of my sister in laws self esteem.  He is going home to break everyone's hearts.  My parents.  Her parents.  All the children involved.  And the last thing he said to me..."This isn't about YOU, this is about ME!  It's always been about ME!"

Yes.  Yes, "Dad".  It was always about you.  And because it was always about you...hearts died in the process.

I turned on the song "Helpless" by Neil Young.  It is off the album "Everyone Knows This is Nowhere" and was one of my fathers favorite songs.  I put my head down and I cried.  I cried long and hard from a place so deep within me that I knew I was no longer an adult woman, but that little girl whose father destroyed her self esteem, her sense of security, her trust and faith and most of all, destroyed her life.  I wept so hard for this broken doll inside of me.  The pain was palpable.  I could feel her within me, so angry for never getting a chance to tell the real man who ruined my life what I really thought of him.  Angry, that now my relationship with my brother, my one link to that time in my life is now irretrievably broken. I cried for loss.  I cried from abandonment.  I cried for the realization that I was left to my own devices by my daddy when I was only 9 years old, the same age my niece is right now.  And wept harder still...because I know now, as a 45 year old woman, that I can never, ever get those moments back, nor can I save my niece from becoming a 45 year old woman who is going to inevitably look back with the same pain, grief and anger.

It's been two days since my brother left town.

He sent me a text message.  "Left my sneakers there.  Can you ship them to me?"

No apology.  No "I'm sorry" for hurting you.  No sense of responsibility for the devastation he left in his wake.  No regret.  Just concern for his sneakers.

He is, after all, his father's son.

And I sit here, my heart still torn wide open, trying to wrestle with the fact that I have all these open wounds that I thought were long gone, but realize now they were just scabbed up, waiting to be torn wide open to bleed, to fester, to become infected.  It is a painful realization to find out that what you thought you were so far past in your life, you never really resolved after all.  You just buried it deep down, burned it in a box and scattered the ashes somewhere.

Eventually, the winds of time blow them back at you.  You suffocate in their thickness as they choke you and blind you. You shake your head to clear your thoughts, to gain some sense of vision and clarity.  Then suddenly, you realize.   The game remains the same...only the players have changed. 

And like a lost little child on a subway heading to Queens at 2am...you brave it alone.

Home is only a few more stops away. 

Focus 52: Shadows

I love make up.

I am a girly girl who lives and dies for the sparkle, the shimmer, the gloss, the gleam, the bling, the shiny and all things that are wonderfully and magically feminine.

Lately, I haven't been feeling so girly.

Since my hysterectomy, it has been hard for me to jump back on the "Sparkle Wagon" as I call it and make myself fabulous.  It's been a real struggle. A chore for me.  Even showering is a process.  Bending over to shave my legs is a true production as I can feel the incisions in my abdomen tugging hard to the point where they feel like they are going to snap.  Showering usually exhausts me to the point where I don't feel like going out any longer.

The other day, in the mail, one of my dear friends, a fellow blogger who shares my love of all things make up, sent me a pallet of eye shadows, cheek tints and a nude lip gloss.  Just something to brighten my day and make me feel "gorg" (as she put it) after all the shit I have been through as of late.  Well, I played with those eye shadows in a gazillion different color combinations on my arm til it looked like one big long bruise.

You know, when a bruise is healing?  All those crazy colors; purples, yellows, greens, blues, blacks.

And when I realized that, I scrubbed my arm clean.  It brought me back to a time in my life where I had to rely on cover up, thick, copious amounts of cover up, to cover up bruises that were given to me by someone who claimed they loved me.  As I was washing off my arm, still staring at these glorious eye shadows, I wondered why...why would I be thinking about something so terrible out of nowhere when just five minutes earlier, I was in girly girl heaven?

Then, I realized.  20 years.  This November will be 20 years since someone tried to end my existence on this planet.  20 years since someone beat me into a coma with a baseball bat in front of my 4 year old daughter.  20 years since doctors told my parents that I may not come back from this and if I do, I will probably have severe brain damage for the rest of my life.  The "anniversary", if you will, of one of the worst moments of my entire life.  I suppose it had been brewing just under the surface in me for awhile.  The night before receiving this wonderful present from my friend, I had had a very restless sleep.  At one point, my husband had to wake me, because not only had my sleep been fitful, but apparently at one point, I ended up flailing about, punching him violently and screaming for whomever I was dreaming about to "leave me alone, leave me alone...stop!"  My husband shook me awake.  "It's me, baby...it's me," he said as he slowly brought me out of my tortured slumber and back into reality.  I stared at him for a minute, still confused and somewhat dazed.

"It's me," he said again, softly.

"Okay," I nodded, understanding that he was reassuring me that I was safe.  "Okay."

I curled back up on his chest and went back to sleep.

It's peculiar to me that even 20 years later, the silliest of things can trigger me.  A certain scent.  The sound of a man's voice when it is particularly gruff and laden heavily with a thick, italian accent.  There are specific sounds that make me jittery, like the sounds of footsteps on a wooden floor, especially if that wood floor creaks.  There are certain actors I can't watch on TV or in the movies who remind me of my abuser and even if the movie is supposedly "sooooooooooo good," I will still avoid it like the plague.

The day after I got my friends gift, I went back into my bathroom, and played in front of my mirror again, combining golds with peacock blues and and lush, rich purple shadows.  And it became fun again.  The joy was restored because those other shadows, the kind that hover over you and wake you from restful slumber...the kind that haunt your thoughts and dreams, the kinds that are long, tall and ominous?  They eventually go away.  And they are replaced by 16 pots of beautiful eye shadows sent with love from a gret friend.  A silly soap opera palette called "The Balm and the Beautiful"...with names like "The Other Woman", "The Drama Queen" and my personal favorite, "The Perfect Man."

However, I think I will steer clear of the one called "The Coma Patient" for a little while.

Hits a little too close to home.  ;)

Focus 52: Writer's choice - The Men In My Life

They say a girl is forever looking for the love her father.

They say a girls first true love is her father.

And, they say, when a girl finally marries the love of her life, that man will be the image of her father.

I've had a lot of men in my life.

Boyfriends who have come and gone.  My mothers boyfriends, who also came and went.  My biological father, who I wanted love from, but never received it.  And because of the damage he did to me, I searched for a long time, cliche as it may be, looking for that love in all the wrong places.  I got into relationships that were destructive.  I was the victim, no, survivor, of a relationship where I was beaten almost daily, into submission.  A relationship that broke me, literally and emotionally.  Broken bones.  Broken heart.  I wanted so badly to be loved unconditionally by a man, any man, be it the one who brought me into this world, or some divine replacement for him.  I wanted to marry a man who would take care of me.  Not the woman I am, but the little girl who never received the love she needed.  I wanted both of these men, the father and the husband, to cherish me.  To fulfill me.  To complete me.  There was this giant hole in my heart, in my soul...in my little girl world, that desperately needed to heal.  It bled, continuously.

After my biological father left my mother, when I was a mere 7 years old, she dated often.  It was within her right to do so.  She was single, dealing with her own pain, needing to be loved and valued as well.  My biological father was a horrible man.  He was cruel, selfish, self centered.  He hurt my mother in so many ways, they are far too numerous to mention.  The men she brought home, they were never right for her.  They were distractions, temporary band aids on bullet wounds.  Something to dull the ache of being rejected by the man who was her high school sweetheart.  The man who promised he would love her forever.

He lied.  Oh, how he lied.

By the time my mother brought home the man who is now my stepfather, I was an angry 11 year old.  I didn't want any more of these men around her, around us...this tiny unit of a family who only consisted of my mother, my brother and myself.  I was over her repeated heartbreak.  I was over meeting every random fool who promised her the moon and instead, gave her faded stars.  When my stepfather came into the picture, I remember thinking, "Great.  Another one."  He will stay for a little while.  Pretend to care about my brother and I long enough to be able to sleep with her.  Then, like the rest, he will be gone.  I put up a wall that would rival The Great Wall, never letting any of them in.  Never letting them close enough to me to hurt me.  And, I also grew a deep resentment for my mother, for continuing to bring these people into our lives, allowing my brother and I to feel this false sense of security, only to be let down again.

But this man, the man you see on the right in this photo...he was, well, different.  He didn't overcompensate with gifts and toys for my brother and I.  All he wanted to do was love my mother and in time, perhaps love us as well.  If we would let him.  He saw us not as a burden, but part of the package my mother came with.  He included us on his dates with her.  Picnics, movies, weekend trips to Lake George.  He just wanted to be with my mother and he knew that in doing so, he would have to learn to want to be with two very broken little children as well.

As years went by, this man earned my trust.  He didn't play games with my mothers heart, nor with mine.  He was truthful, forthright and upstanding.  He knew that we were all, collectively, damaged works of art and he took his time restoring the three of us.  Skillfully, he dabbled with the colors on the pallet to recolor our world.  Slowly, the picture came to life once more and now, we were a family.  This man made me understand what it was like to have a fathers love once more.  Eventually, I discovered that he too, was in pain, suffering his own loss.  He had a daughter who rejected him.  Her mother had poisoned her against him during a very ugly divorce of his own.  So, while I was desperately seeking a fathers love, he was desperately seeking the love of a daughter.  He filled my fatherless void.  I fulfilled the role of his estranged daughter.  It took time, it took energy and it took work, but eventually...I gave him the greatest gift that any stepchild can offer their new parent.  I started calling him, "Dad".  Tentatively at first, but then, it became natural, rolling off my tongue as freely as any little girl would call the first man in her life "Daddy".

This man put braces on my crooked teeth.  He put my first prom gown on my back.  He was there to hold me the first time I got stood up on a date.  "His loss," he said.  And I cried, allowing him to cradle me in his arms, perhaps feeling for the first time that I was not rejected but it was, in fact, this boys loss.  He taught me to drive a car.  Was there for my dance recitals, piano recitals, talent shows.  He bought me roses and would proudly boast, "that's my daughter."  He made me feel special, loved and when the wounds would surface from my biological fathers rejection of me, the same words, "his loss", would always be the words that would bring me the most comfort...especially once he started adding "his loss is my gain" to the phrase.

When my biological father was killed in a car accident in 1986, it was my stepfather who came to my job, took my hands in his and broke the news to me.  I fainted.  I fainted into the arms of the man who rescued me, while grieving the death of a man whose DNA was in my body, but I felt no connection to other than the obligatory connection of knowing that this is the person responsible for giving me life.

But, in some other way, I felt free.  I felt free to fully love my stepfather now.  There was no more guilt attached to my calling him "Dad" now.  I always felt it was wrong in some way to call my stepfather "Daddy" when I had a father.  Yet, the relationship that I had with my stepfather made me realize that any man can become a father.  It is a man who is worthy who gets to be called "Daddy".

My stepfather.  My father.  He is beyond worthy...and I love him beyond all reason.

I made a lot of mistakes as I grew older.  Now, I was not searching for the love of a father any longer, but rather, searching for a man like my father to take on the role of my husband, my life partner.  And, I did a lot of settling during that time, because there was no man who could possibly measure up to the greatness of my father.  Certainly I came close a few times, but there was always something missing.  Something lacking.  I wanted a man like my father.  My father would bring my mother flowers for no reason.  He would greet her with big, warm hugs at the door when he came home.  He would refer to her as "his princess" and even in her fifties, she would still smile this shy, adoring smile and a slight blush would color her cheeks.  I wanted that.  I ached for that.  Two marriages and several broken engagements later...I still never found it.

Enter the man on the left in that photograph.

My life was in a shambles.  I was in the middle of a very messy separation with husband number two.  My daughter was 12 years old and my son, just barely 4 years of age.  I had met my now husband at school.  He was a quiet man, reserved, didn't talk much but when he did, it was always something either poignant, clever or sweet.  I noticed he held open doors for women, let someone with an armful of groceries go before him online if he only had an item or two.  He was complimentary of people.  A gracious man who everyone seemed to really like.  One evening, at a school function, my daughter met this man.  I often brought her up to my college functions with me to show her how fun college can be. I wanted her to get a taste of the college experience so she would be more determined to go.  After she met him, she sidled up to me and said, "Mom, you should marry him.  He's really cool.  I like him."  I remember laughing out loud.  "Sam, I barely know him.  We are just friends."  She cocked her head to the side, raised a brow at me and said, "I like him.  He's not like the other jerks you date."

And all of a sudden, it dawned on me.  She was seeing me the way I saw my mother when I was 11 years old.  While I was far more careful than my mother was not to bring around my boyfriends near my children, there was one man in particular that I was dating that my daughter really, really did not like.  She actually hated him enough to forewarn me that if I intended on marrying him, she would move away from me.  I have to admit, that made a huge impact on me.  At another school function, my soon to be ex husband was in attendance with my children.  I was the President of the Honor Society at school and we were inducting the newest members, of which this man my daughter was so fond of was to be inducted as well.  As each person was handed their certificate, one by one, I gave each new inductee a warm hug and welcomed them into the group.  When this man came up for his certificate, I remember feeling such a nervousness come over me.  I didn't want any one to notice or realize that I was attracted to him on some level.  So, instead of that warm embrace, I merely gave him a handshake.  That gesture was as transparent as glass to my soon to be ex husband who said, "that kid whose hand you just shook?  Yeah.  He's going to be your next husband."  I remember laughing nervously.  "Whaaaaat?  What kind of crazy thing is that to say?"

We were married two years later.

In this man, I found my father.  After 12 years together, he escorts me to the car, linking my arm onto his so that I don't fall.  He opens the car door for me.  He says, "Careful, honey," every time I get into the car just before closing the door just to make sure he doesn't shut the door on me or that my dress does not get caught outside the door.  He walks around to the other side of the car when we reach our destination and escorts me out.  If he knows he has to park far from our venue, he will always drop me off first and then, proceed to park the car.  He brings me home flowers for no reason whatsoever.  If he knows he is going to be gone all day, he will go out and buy me breakfast and leave it in the microwave for me to warm up when I finally wake up.  He kisses me every time he leaves the room, whether it is to go to the bathroom or to walk down the hall to his office when he is working at home.  He calls me his princess, his queen, his baby girl and a million other names of adoration and affection.  And when I look at him looking at me, I see my father staring at my mother.  I see the insurmountable love in his eyes.  I see him smile at me sometimes, not being able to help himself...because he is just that much in love.  He calls me his best friend, the same way my father says to me, "your mother is my best friend in the whole world.  Without her, life just doesn't work."

Those two men in that photo.  They are the loves of my life.  The men in my life.  They both filled a desperate void in my world.  I love both of them so much that I can cry just thinking about it.  They both saved me, in different ways, from the feelings of rejection that my biological father left behind when he left us.  These two men, so much alike.  Quiet.  They are listeners.  They don't have much to say, but when they do, it is meaningful.  It is from the heart.  It isn't frivolous or just talk to hear themselves talk.  They are both creatures of habit who work hard for the women they love.  And like my father, my husband embraced my two children, not out of obligation, but out of love.  When my children talk about him, they refer to him as their dad, despite their father being in their life.  My son refers to him as "my steppy", his affectionate name for his step dad and my daughter as a pet name for him that warms my heart every time I hear her say it or see it written in a card.  My son calls my husband his best friend and to me, that is the most joyous thing in the world.  My daughters children, our grandchildren, race up to him with arms wide open screaming  "Gampa Gampa Gampa" and will just tug at his legs til he picks them up, tosses them in the air and gives them great big hugs and kisses that make them burst out into hysterical giggling fits.  And my daughter, she loves with and adores him as she has from the moment she was a little girl telling me, "you should marry him, Mom."

She was right.  And I am glad I listened.

My husband.  My father.  They both love me so much.  I am very blessed for having them.  They both claim they are very blessed to have me.  To know that someone thinks that much of you that they consider you a blessing in their lives?  No other feeling compares.

I know sometimes my father wonders where his biological daughter is, how she is doing, what is going on her world.  He has reached out to her countless times and every time, she rejects him.

I take his hand.  I smile at him. I kiss his cheek and say to him, "her loss is my gain."

I know some day that I am going to lose my dad.  It's inevitable.  Time slowly steals our parents from us.  But, I also know that whenever I look into my husbands eyes, I will see the kindness, the love, the adoration and the mutual respect I always see in my dads eyes when he looks at me.  I feel sometimes that perhaps my husband was this special gift given to me in the world so that I will never have to know the pain of being without my father ever again. 

These are the men in my life.

If fate is on your side, sometimes you are blessed enough to get one or the other.

I am fortunate enough to have both.

I am a lucky girl, indeed.