Trying to force a daughter, father relationship that was never going to happen.

I am the perfect example of what every dead beat baby daddy probably want in a baby mama.

I want to share a deeply personal journey of mine, a testimony if you will, of a relentless pursuit of a father-daughter relationship that was doomed to be an illusion. The saga unfolded over a few grueling years, steeped in anticipation, hope, and heartache.

The story begins during the early bloom of my pregnancy, a time typically filled with joy and expectations. The father was absent, yet I held onto a glimmer of hope that he'd eventually recognize his impending responsibility. His side of the family graced my baby shower, infusing a tenuous spark of optimism in my heart. With the birth of my beautiful daughter, I gave her his last name. It was an earnest beacon, a symbol of an unspoken promise, a call to him that he was a father now. Yet, this would become my regret, the very act of assigning his last name would later prove to be a complicated hurdle when her adoptive father stepped into the picture.

Time passed in silence and the first year of my daughter's life came and went without any sign from him. But then, in the summer of 2013, a bolt from the blue arrived in the form of a text message. He admitted his abandonment and expressed a desire to amend the broken bond. His first request, though, was a paternity test.

With a heart brimming with hope, I scheduled the test and undertook the taxing 500-mile journey to introduce him to our daughter. In response to his suggestion, we decided to stay the weekend. However, the following days turned into a symphony of disappointment as he failed to show up. The final day was the worst; a false promise of breakfast and a long, heartbreaking wait at a gas station. There were no calls, no texts, just silence.

In that moment, as I drove back at breakneck speed with my toddler in the back seat, I tasted the bitterness of betrayal. I was overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions – the despair of rejection, the sting of humiliation, and a strong resolve to protect my child from this pain. The silent drive was punctuated by divine grace, as if a higher power was watching over us.

Yet, just when I decided to close this painful chapter, he reappeared. The paternity test confirmed his status as a biological father, but it took him another six months to reach out, asking if our daughter needed anything. Despite his shortcomings, I held the door ajar, always hoping that he'd rise to the occasion. I yearned for my daughter to know her real father, to have a bond that wasn't a proxy through my brother or my own father.

For four long years, I clung to hope, a fragile lifeline that blinded me to the painful truth. I kept hoping that he would change, that he would care, that he would prove his love for our daughter. But his sporadic calls and broken promises were proof enough that he didn't care, or at least, not enough.

On the fifth year, I finally found the courage to sever the tie that was causing so much pain. I was healed, liberated, and resolute. I realized that hope, while a comforting companion, can also blind us from accepting harsh realities. I learned to be okay with the fact that he didn't step up. I learned to cherish the ones who did, my brother and my father, who became her real fathers. Life, after all, isn't about the cards we're dealt, but how we play them. And with that lesson, I closed this chapter and opened a new one, for my daughter and myself, filled with resilience and hope for better tomorrows.