Only the Angels Know Her Name

Last Father’s Day, I posted a brief missive about my biological father, a man I’ve never met. Rather than rehashing that this year, or posting yet another sappy-happy Hallmark card cookie-cutter clickbait communiqué about fatherhood like the ones you’re likely to see on any other website today, I’m going to tell you a different story this Father’s Day.

Once upon a time, I was married. The marriage wasn’t a very happy relationship, but it had its rare moments. At one point, the ex-wife and I were hoping—desperately hoping against hope, in all honesty—to welcome a new life into the world… but those hopes never bore fruit. Without going into the details (there really aren’t many to go into) the ex-wife had an ectopic pregnancy, and the fetus was dead before we knew the fetus had even existed.

We never told anyone else about the failed pregnancy. We never even had a chance to name the child, though we had several candidate names prepared. If God gave her a name at her conception, only the angels know her name.

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To the Father I Never Knew

I never knew you. I don’t really want to know you, though when I was a child, I sometimes wanted to.

Children don’t know what they want.

I wanted to meet you once. Several times, really. The meeting wouldn’t have changed anything. I’d still have no feelings for you at all. Maybe, though, that meeting would have closed a hole in my soul that has never fully closed. Maybe I would’ve gotten to meet the brothers and sisters you’ve sired that I’ve never met—the family I never knew that your selfish, repulsive acts denied me—but, chances are, they probably can’t stand you, either.

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