To the Child of an Absent Parent

I know about the empty chair at birthdays. I know about the phone call that never came, the hug that was missing when you needed a father or a mother close by the most. That absence marked you in a way no one else quite understands, and sometimes it turns into anger, sometimes into a sadness that doesn't even have a name.

I'm not going to ask you to pretend it didn't hurt. It did, and it still hurts on quieter days like this one. But I want to tell you something maybe no one else has said: I never forsook you. While that person was absent from your side, I was present, even when you didn't know how to recognize my presence.

Forgiving that father or that mother doesn't mean saying the absence was right. It means you stop letting their emptiness define the size of your worth. I take you up today, the way a father gathers a child into his arms. You are not what was missing. You are what I chose to love.