My dad taught me a valuable lesson, one I work to unlearn even today. Men are not loyal, not to be trusted and certainly not loved. He abandoned my mom and me when I was 8. I found the salmon-colored Post-it that read, “I’ll be back,” on the kitchen counter before my mom woke up. I was left broken, angry and insecure. He’d left countless times throughout their 15-year marriage, but this time felt different. He wasn’t just disappearing for a couple weeks with one of his girlfriends. A week later he returned late at night, when he knew I’d be asleep. In the golden retriever puppy card he left with my mom, he wrote that he planned to return in a couple days. Tears cascaded down my face as I read the card in my closet the next morning.

 Another four months passed before he came back for his things. I wept and pleaded for him to take me with him until he promised to visit at 3 o’clock that Saturday. I had watched him lie for years. I had no reason to believe him, but I did. I waited for six hours on the steps of our redwood porch. I tried convincing myself he’d come because he loved me and I wasn’t dispensable. My mom begged me to come inside, but I assured her he would come. He never did. He broke the only promise he had ever made to me and I never saw him again.

 To suppress my heartbreak, I focused on my relationship with my mom. She was strong and always had been. When my dad disappeared, she never cried in my presence. When we couldn’t afford to pay the electricity bill, my mom and I played games in the dark. When the city turned our water off, we raced our bikes to the store for gallons with which to bathe. Reminding me that life could be fun again was her way of protecting me. I was blissfully unaware my dad had stolen her life savings when he walked out on us, leaving my mom unable to pay the mortgage. We could have been left homeless, but her best friend allowed us to live on his 50-foot sailboat for a year. Still, I never knew we were poor. Living on the boat with my mom was just one of our adventures.  

 The man my mom had called her best friend for nearly two decades, had been my dedicated godfather my entire life. My Nino, short for padrino (godfather in Spanish), had spent every Friday night taking me out on a “date” for as long as I could remember. We went bowling, to movies, out to dinner, whatever I wanted. He had his own family, but made time each week to make me feel special and develop our relationship. We grew close over the years, but it wasn’t until I was 10 that my mom explained just how close we really were.

 My mom says after my dad left I withdrew from life. She says I lost my smile, my laugh and every sign of “being a kid.” I went to therapy once a week, but she still worried I would never return to the outgoing child I once was. But she had a secret she hoped would help release me from the depressed state. After consulting my therapist, she decided to tell me my dad wasn’t my biological father.

 She and my dad had always wanted children. When they discovered he was sterile, they turned to artificial insemination, but were uncomfortable resorting to an anonymous donor. Who better to turn to than my mom’s best friend, my Nino? From a logical standpoint, hearing that I hadn’t been abandoned by my “real” father helped, but emotional trauma cannot be numbed by logic. It still hurt. I now had lingering sentiments of betrayal, but trusted that my mom and Nino had done the right thing.  

Even so, I was unprepared when my mom decided to marry my Nino when I was 13. Two years after my dad left, my Nino and his wife divorced. He started dating my mom after his divorce was finalized. During the four years they dated, I allowed myself to grow even closer to him, despite my instinctive reluctance. I almost remembered what it meant to be a “real” family. But my feelings about my Nino changed upon hearing that he would be marrying my mom. He was now someone who could abandon us again.

 Even though I knew I should’ve trusted him, on their wedding day, I felt like I saw my mom falling into a trap. Before people arrived, I realized I had left my pale blue, satin heels that perfectly matched my dress at home. I saw it as an opportunity to prevent what I feared most from happening. All rationale aside, I threw a fit like an infant begging for a pacifier. Laurel, my childhood babysitter, dragged me into the other room, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Please tell me you’re not really this selfish. Can’t you let her be happy, just for today? “

 I looked down the hall to see my mom getting ready as if nothing had happened. I saw pain in her eyes, despite her stoic expression. Then she hurried into the bathroom and shut the door. The sound of her hidden whimper hurt in new a way. Suddenly, I became the cause of her pain. Embarrassment and contrition flooded my being. I slipped on the black, platform sandals I had worn earlier, walked over to her and held her without speaking. The embrace we shared said enough. Though she wanted my support, she would be married either way and I had to accept it. But to accept him, I had to let go of the past.

 Before the ceremony ended, my Nino reached for my hand and showed another ring. A dome of diamond-covered platinum topped the gold band. For a moment, I stood shuddering. I winced at a timorous reflection I caught of myself in a mirror across the room. Covered by shadow, I appeared cold and unforgiving. I detested the detached person I had made excuses for myself to become. Thoughts flooded my mind, drowning out all outside noise until his tender voice pierced the chaos.

 “Megan, today I promise my love and commitment to your mother. I promise to care for her and protect her for the rest of my life. In that promise, I vow myself to you as much as I do her. I will never leave you, never lie to you and no matter what you do, I will always love you.”

 His tone was melodic and sincere. I secretly questioned his seemingly unconditional acceptance of me. I both resisted and craved his willingness to care and his gift of affection. His tough hands softened as he gently slid the band on mine. Knowing my apprehension, he attempted to ease my anxiety with his promise.

 My ambiguity turned to relief. I hadn’t yet let him into my heart completely, but I felt comfortable knowing that my mom and I were safe. I knew he loved us; now I needed to learn to love him. I remembered John 14:1 and repeated it to myself throughout the evening. Do not let your heart be troubled. I didn’t want to feel resentful or suspicious anymore. I coveted the joviality I saw in everyone else. I needed to know everything would be fine.

 The day two best friends married to become my parents, they taught me a new lesson: sometimes you have to let your guard down and take the risk of trusting again. That same day the man I now call my father made me a promise, one he has yet to break. He gave me more than a ring; he gave me a key that began to unlock the door that protected my heart. He helped set me off on my path of self-healing. I no longer hide from the mess my dad made of me. I’m learning to own it.