Before I was born, my father and mother were in an unhappy marriage, and my father decided it best to separate himself from the situation and get a "fresh start." A fresh start looked like him paying child support but not being involved in my life. Some years after their divorce, my mother remarried, and I thought my stepfather was my birth father until being told otherwise at age six. Once I understood my birth father was out there and living in the same city, I pestered my mother to get me in contact with him. She hesitantly obliged and arranged a day for us to meet.

The week we were supposed to meet was filled with anxiety. I talked to my best friend and neighbor about it every day. My mom helped me pick out an outfit a week in advance. The day came, and I looked out the window every few minutes to see if he was parked outside. He was considerably late, but his van pulled up, and he walked to the door and knocked. I wish I could say I remembered what he looked like, but I honestly can't. I don't recall our reception being warm, but I hopped into the passenger seat of his van, and we were off for what I expected to be a fun day.

We made awkward small talk before he told me he needed to check on a few job sites. He worked in construction, and I remember him being extremely fatigued and stressed out. The first job site looked like a gut job remodel. I remember climbing between the framing and him telling me to stand still. We visited a few other job sites with the same result. He was getting understandably impatient and decided to take me back to his apartment, so he could get his work done uninterrupted. We picked up lunch from a place I can remember, and he took me to his apartment. I remember his apartment was considerably more elegant than anywhere I ever lived. He turned on the TV to Nickelodeon and told me he'd be back.

Hours passed, and the day turned into night, and then he was back. He told me to grab my belongings and that he would take me back to my mom. The drive back was quiet, I don't think he said a single word to me. As he dropped me off — I remembered the positives of having his attention for part of the day, eating out, and watching cartoons. I told my mom I couldn't wait to see him again.

For months after that, I tried to get a hold of my father with the number he gave me. During the time, my mother and stepfather's marriage started unraveling, and I desperately searched for something stable in my life. I called that number every day and left a message for several months. About 4 months later, I called, and a woman picked up on the other line. In an unmistakably firm tone, she told me to not call back. She made it clear that my father had no intention of being in contact with me and would change their number if I kept calling. I hung up the phone and fought back the tears before telling my mother what happened. I've written and deleted many sentences that try to capture the essence of how those words made me feel. It's the most profound hurt you can imagine. I accepted this loss and hoped I could find a father in my stepfather.

As my mother and stepfather's relationship deteriorated, I lost the only father I ever knew. While my stepfather stayed in the lives of my half-brothers, he slowly distanced himself from me. Living without a father was much less about the cliches of a boy growing up without a male figure and much more about the hurt of unreciprocated love. I learned how to shave on my own. I learned how to shoot a basketball on my own. I learned about sex on my own, but I never overcame the hurt of being rejected so overtly.

Through my community and religion, men and women stepped up. They helped supplement what I missed without having a father around. They could fill in the financial gaps when it made sense, or help with the stereotypically male roles, but they could never fill the void I felt about that rejection. I carried that weight with me and used it to motivate me. Every year I used Father's Day as a motivation to prove to my father that he should have chosen to love me. I ignored how unhealthy that mentality was, and it fueled every ambition I've ever gone after. It was never a day of joy and celebrating fathers, it was a day for me to exact revenge.

As I sat down to breakfast this morning, my 3-year-old daughter brought me a card and a small gift. She anticipated this moment all week and smiled ear to ear as I showed my gratitude. As I sat in my office this morning going through emails and plans for the week, I noticed that I wasn't consumed with thoughts about my birth father. I was filled with love for my family, and I finally let go of the pain.