When you spend your time writing about romance, you involuntarily start to think deeply about love in all its forms.
Not just romantic love between adult partners, but platonic love between friends, familial love between siblings, parents and their children, the macro level abstract love we feel for fellow human beings, even those we don’t know.
More than that, you turn the microscope on love and what it means to you. Love as it pertains to all aspects of your life, and how it has shaped you as a person. Love in some form or other, weaves itself into the fabric of all of us. When you write romance you start pulling at the loose threads of your personal fabric, unravelling it to see what it reveals.
I did, and what it revealed was that I never loved my father.
There, I said it.
Bear with me, there’s a reason, and it’s not that I’m a sociopath. I guess the easiest way to sum up that reason is to say that I never knew my father, so in some ways there was nothing to love. I mean, I knew him, as in, I knew who he was, but I never had enough of a relationship with him to develop the parent-child bond that most of us assume to be natural and omnipresent. It’s not.
I first met my father when I was four years old. A stranger entering our home, and my life, carrying an oversized teddy, and a mouth full of promises. Even as a preschooler I regarded him with a healthy suspicion, which in retrospect, never went away, even as I grew up. It turns out I was right to have my reservations.
My father was to be an erratic and shadowy presence in my life, appearing at unpredictable intervals, often years apart. The general pattern was that he would appear, stay for a few hours, maybe take me to visit relatives, and then leave, promising to return the next day/week/month. Sometimes he would stick to that promise, but more often he would disappear, almost without a trace.