LOVE, REBUILT: HOW MY
FATHER AND I FOUND
OUR WAY BACK
By Wendy Watson
When my parents divorced, I was
eight years old—and my world
cracked wide open. Nothing made
sense anymore. The people who were
supposed to love each other didn’t.
The home I once knew was split in
half, and I didn’t know who to blame.
So I blamed the easiest target: my
dad.
We only saw him four days a month—
every other weekend. That was the
court order. And even though he tried
in his own way, those four days never
felt like enough. I was angry. I was
confused. I was grieving something I
didn’t have the language for yet.
Somewhere between the distance, my
own stubborn independence, and a
heart full of unprocessed pain, I
stopped seeing him as a parent. I still
remember the day that became clear. I was about 11,
and we were at the beach—my dad, my sister, and I.
He was giving me another one of his lectures about
how I needed to open up to him, how he was still my
authority figure. I remember thinking, “You’re not an
authority to me. I only see you four days a month.”
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