Happy Father’s Day—From Who?

So I did something bold this year.

Instead of spending Father’s Day avoiding social media like it was a group project I didn’t sign up for, I decided to do something a little… healing. A little redemptive. A little delusional, perhaps.

I sent a text to my dad.

Not my stepdad, not my mentor, not Dave from AutoZone who gave me life advice that one time—I mean my biological father. The man who exited stage left before I learned to tie my shoes or spell “abandonment.”

I kept it simple. Emotionally neutral. Something Hallmark-y.

“Hey Dad, Happy Father’s Day. Hope you’re doing well.”

It felt like one of those messages people post about after they’ve been through a breakthrough, written a memoir, and filmed the documentary. I figured maybe this was my soft launch into healing.

And then.

My phone buzzed.

A message from him.

“Who is this?”

Sir.

You created me.

You’re listed on my birth certificate. You supplied the DNA. There are family albums—grainy 90s ones—where we’re both in the same photo, and I’m the confused toddler next to your oversized belt buckle.

And you’re asking, “Who is this?”

I stared at my phone like I was on a reality show and just got voted off the island by the person who brought me into existence.

Part of me wanted to respond with:

“It’s me. The child you left in the middle of your ‘I’m-just-going-out-for-milk’ tour.”

Or:

“Your retirement plan. Or at least I would’ve been if you hadn’t ghosted like a magician.”

Instead, I replied:

“It’s your son.”

Nothing. Just the three blinking dots.

Then silence.

Maybe he fainted. Maybe he’s in shock. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t remember. Or maybe he opened the message, shrugged, and went back to yelling at the news.

Either way, I sat there, phone in hand, feeling equal parts ridiculous and weirdly proud.

Because this time, I didn’t send the message hoping to get something back.

I sent it because I’ve done the work. Because I’m not waiting for closure from someone who probably thinks therapy is a scam and fatherhood was optional. Because I’m the one breaking the cycle, one awkward Father’s Day text at a time.

So to everyone out there who’s navigating estranged parents, weird replies, or no replies at all—cheers.

You’re showing up.

You’re healing.

And you’re doing it with more courage than the people who left.

And hey, if your “dad” replies with “Who is this?” just know…

He’s officially disqualified from receiving that mug that says “#1 Dad.”

Keep the mug. You earned it.