Daddy...

The girl sat on her mothers bed, a girl of 7, with almond, brown eyes and thin, yet silky raven hair. Her feet dangled over the side of the bed as she slid closer to her mother, as if she was going to tell her a secret. She was a girl filled with questions and uncertainties. "Mommy, why doesn't daddy write to me?' she asked her mother. Her mother looked into her daughters troubled face and said the first thing that came to mind. "He doesn't have any stamps, sweetie" she says, knowing that this answer would not suffice for her curious child. The young girl began to cry. Then, since she doesn't have the words, she instinctively pulls her daughter into a tight embrace, hoping that she could ease the pain, the void that is so palpable, in her child's heart. A pain that will grow and metastasize into a bitter rage during the girls adolescent years.
That girl was me, as you may have guessed, and this conversation happened as a result of my parents divorce, when I was two years old. From the moment my mother left, my father no longer existed in my life. He signed away his rights to me, without any argument, when I was just six years old. His vacancy was felt deeply in my formative years. It just so happens that my mom met and married a wonderful man, when I was 7 years old. As I sit here today, cleaning out my jewelry box, I find a tiny little name bracelet that reminds me of another time in my life that stands out among the many clouded memories that I vow to keep from fading away. It's gold, with my name etched in cursive on the front. The back has a date on it. November 21st, 1982.
 I will never forget this date. In fact, I can sit here and picture the days happenings in my mind like it was yesterday.
My mother dressed me in a creme and violet dress. George, her new husband, lifted me up in his strong, yet tender arms, so he could speak to me at eye level. "Jennifer" he said. "We are going to the courthouse today for something very special. Today is the day that the court will grant me the right to be your daddy. Do you understand?" he asked nervously, wanting so very much to feel my love and acceptance. "Yes" I said ,timidly. "Do you have any questions?" George asked me, studying my face to see if my young mind was grasping the depth of the situation. I sat, fidgeting for a moment, then looked into his deep brown eyes and said quietly, almost in a whisper ,"Um, would it be ok if I call you Daddy?" This man, who was holding me in what seemed to be the strongest arms in the world, began to cry. He cried tears of joy and held me close, in a protective embrace, and said "Jennifer, I would be honored if you called me your daddy." With that, he put me down and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small red box and popped it open for me to observe. It held the name bracelet. He said, and I will never forget the intensity of his words, "From now on, you will have a daddy. I will never leave you or mommy. You are my daughter and no matter what you do, no matter what you say or how you act, I will always love you." He reached for my tiny wrist and clasped the bracelet on gently.
This was so many years ago. Yet, he stood by his word. My father is the epitome of a man. He is always pragmatic and dependable. He supported me through the pain and abandonment issues I had, as a result of my biological father's actions. I married a Greek man, much like my father. The old adage that girls marry a man in their fathers shadow held true for me. As I have matured and become a parent myself, I have realized what a gift my father gave me by accepting me into his heart. The bracelet was just a bonus. So, I tuck it away, in my jewelry box to keep it safe, much like I tuck away these memories. Unlike the bracelet, I carry them with me always. I will always remember that I once was a girl  who wanted nothing more than a fathers love...