I can’t say he was ever really there for me. Occasionally he would come home, yell my name and play with me. Occasionally he would let me give him makeovers and put my delicate glitter barrettes in his hair. Occasionally he would come watch me cheer, dance, play soccer, softball, or any of the other sports I tried for him. I tried my best to be a good daughter to him, but it was never enough.

It was mid June, and it was hot and a little stuffy, but there was a breeze that cooled everyone down. I had a pretty dress that I made my grandmother take in and add sequins until it reached my standards. My mom did my hair and make-up and my friends started to come over with their parents, cameras in hand. It was my first school dance. I was 13 years old. We took pictures outside my house with our friends and family, and he never came downstairs. I waited and stalled, wanting more than anything for my dad to come down the stairs and take one picture with me, but he didn’t. As I got into my friend’s car, I yelled to my mom “Bye Mom! Love you.”
My mom came over and said, “Have fun, and don’t worry about your dad. He will be fine. He just can’t handle you growing up.”
Growing up? I thought. I’m only 13. I’m nowhere near growing up. It was one dance he ruined for me.
That night, after the dance all my friends were going to a pool party. I called my mom, nervous to hear what she would say. Riiiinggggggg One ring. “Hello?” She picked up fast.
“Hi Mom. I have a question.”
“Okay?”
“Can I go to a pool party with my friends?” I asked nervously.
“Tonight!? No Bianca. You’re father would have my head if I let you go. He is already mad. You have to come home.”
“Well what if I sleep out. Pleassseeeeee!” I whined, hoping it would work. It didn’t.
“No. You’re coming home. I’ll be there in 10 minutes to pick you up. Goodbye.”
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t even see me before I went to the dance, and now he wouldn’t even let me have a little fun and go with my friends. I hated him. We didn’t talk for weeks after. The more I didn’t talk to him, the more I hated him.

Three years later, déjà vu. I was 16, and I was going to my first prom. This time pictures were at my friend’s house. The day I bought my dress I tried it on and went to show it to him. “Look at me daddy! Do you like my dress?”

“How much did that cost me?” was all he had to say.

I tried as hard as I could not to repeat history. I told him time, date, and place, for my pictures, and of course he never showed. This time he had a sad excuse…he went fishing. I again didn’t get a picture with my dad, but he wouldn’t ruin my night this time, only my weekend. I was allowed to sleep out that night and go to my friend’s house, but I was under no circumstances allowed to go down the shore with my friends. Even after I explained to him there would be parents there. The answer was still no.

He was the first boy that broke my heart, and not because he wouldn’t let me go out with my friends, because he was never there for me.

Now, a year later, we don’t usually get along. There are times I don’t talk to him for weeks because he didn’t come see my cheerleading competition, or he didn’t say happy birthday. He broke my heart over and over again, but it only made me stronger, and in a way, smarter.