My parents weren't together for long. I was barely a year old when they divorced. My mother didn't stay single for long, though; she met someone else soon after, and they got married. My biological father never forgot about me, and I've always been grateful for that.
But first, I want to talk about my stepfather. That second marriage wasn't a happy one for Mom. If she ran out of money before her next paycheck, she didn't ask her husband for help—she asked him for a loan! She'd borrow money just for basic groceries, which she'd then use to cook dinner for him, too. Yes, things like that actually happen. Mom never even tried to protest or change the dynamic of the household. On top of that, she was the one who disciplined me, showing me the belt and using a stern voice to force me to call him "Dad." Then my brother was born when I was four. My stepfather didn't treat his own son much better than he treated me. There was zero understanding between them.
You couldn't exactly call him an alcoholic. He usually only drank on holidays or maybe the occasional weekend. He loved fishing and would sometimes head out into the woods with his friends for hunting trips. He spent a lot of his time out in the garage, constantly tinkering with the car.
***
When I got older, my father managed to arrange for me to come live with him. After that, everything changed. My father took care of me; he was both a dad and a mom to me. More than that, we became true friends who could talk about absolutely anything without any issues. My father told me once:
"If you have a question, don't keep it to yourself. Just ask."
So, I didn't hold back. Sometimes my questions were so blunt that he'd just freeze in confusion. But he always eventually found an answer—carefully considered and always honest.
On the weekends, I often went to visit my mother. No one there paid any attention to me, and I tried to take advantage of that, enjoying total freedom. I remember staying out with the guys until late at night, sometimes until sunrise, and no one ever asked a single question.
You could do whatever you wanted. One time, I got really bold and brought a girl over. Mom caught us in her own bedroom and threw a massive fit.
"You shameless brat! I'm calling your father right this second!"
But trying to scare me with my father was completely pointless. He was a reasonable, understanding man. No matter how much Mom had swatted me as a kid trying to instill respect for my stepfather, I always felt the difference. My father was completely different. Obviously, I was his son, but it was more than that. Whenever he brought me gifts, he'd always make sure to bring something for my younger brother, too. He'd always tell me:
"He's your brother. You two shouldn't fight. Remember that and stay close."
I believe that upbringing really helped me. Regardless of how I felt about my stepfather, I only have one brother, and he's family. Even though he grew up to be a bit of a slacker, he's very attached to me, and I feel the same way about him.
As I said, my dad was an understanding man. He used persuasion rather than his fists. He only hit me once, and that was when I came home dead drunk, barely able to crawl through the door. My stepfather, on the other hand, was a harsh man. He never tried to explain, discuss, or reason with anyone. At the slightest provocation, he'd go after my brother with a belt. He'd also grab him by the ears and pull upward so hard the poor kid had to stand on his tiptoes. He loved to yell, too—you could hear him screaming all the way down the block. He'd pound his chest and declare that he was the man of the house.
***
One day, I decided to stand up to him. I was fifteen by then, I'd been taking boxing classes, and I felt very strong. I couldn't take it anymore; I stepped in front of the frightened kid and snapped at the bully:
"Just try and touch him. You'll have to go through me!"
My stepfather backed down that time. He didn't change for good, though. The outbursts kept happening, and I'd have to shut him down again. He'd get angry and even threatened me with his shotgun once, but he never actually tried to fight me. Something held him back. I doubt it was just my boxing skills; he was probably more afraid of my father.
***
A lot of time has passed since then. I went to college, got a job, became my own man, and eventually got married. My wife is an incredible woman—beautiful, smart, and successful. She works for a well-known firm and is raising a daughter from her first marriage. So, by a stroke of irony, I'm now a stepfather myself. The girl was nine years old when we got married, so there were some growing pains. I heard it all:
"Mom, why does he have to live with us? Mom, let's go for a walk without him! Mommy, don't leave me, sleep in my room tonight!"
I remember my own stepfather perfectly, and I knew exactly how he would have reacted. So, I chose a different path. I always tried to be understanding and sought out common ground, and slowly, everything fell into place.
The girl is fifteen now. She doesn't call me "Dad," and I'm fine with that. I told her right away that the title of "Father" is something that has to be earned, and I suggested she just think of me as a friend. This is how she talks to me now:
"Can you help me with my homework? I don't get any of it, and Mom just yelled at me. You have more patience."
"Hey, I have a problem I wanted to talk about. Just don't tell Mom, please."
"I'm so glad you're here. I love you."
So, maybe she doesn't call me "Dad." But I'm not a stranger; I'm her stepdad. And unlike her biological father, I never forget her birthday. I try to listen and understand; I support her and help her with school. I'm proud of her trust, I celebrate her successes, and I'm happy she's my daughter.
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