Bill, meet Larry
My mother’s father died when she was in her 20s. My father’s father died when I was three. My own father died when I was 12. My mother had two relationships during the remaining 35 years of her life; the fellas were nice enough, but neither man was a parental figure to me, and there was no emotional connection at all. That was OK. I didn’t lack a father, because I got one the second I met my then-boyfriend’s family at age 19. His dad already had three wonderful, loving daughters (and two sons), but that didn’t stop him from whole-heartedly embracing me as his own. That was 32 years ago. Thirty-two years. That’s a long time. I’m lucky. I had my first dad for only 12. I loved him deeply, and it was mutual. He took a piece of my heart with him. I don’t know how it works, but I sure hope he gets to meet my dad.