When I was about a year old, my mom and dad divorced. My mom got married very quickly, if not immediately, and my "father" became another uncle. No, my father, the real father, was always there. I wrote about it in the previous post, but not about it now.

I remember my mom “raised” me with a belt so that I would call my uncle “Papa.” This same uncle, by the way, was not the most cool or magical father of the dream, he did not try to earn my trust, with his mother, too, it was different. I remember when my mother asked him for loans for bread, up to his salary... for the same bread, which besides us, he will eat. He usually borrowed. When I was 4 years old, my brother was born, and my father-in-law, his father, treated him slightly better than me. If you take for the starting point “nik” in terms of relationships with me, to him it was “nik+/-”. He was not an alcoholic, although the holidays happened and I remember him drunk. Basically, he was riding a car, riding for fishing and hunting, working somewhere there, and again riding for fishing and hunting, repairing the car for these trips. After a while, my father still agreed with my mother about my move. My life changed in many ways, my father was the best, he was for me and my mom and dad, and also, my dad was my friend, the most real! I don’t know how many children can boast of being friends with their fathers, I could. My father had the principle “there will be questions, there will be answers” and I asked, a lot, often, sometimes not correctly. Dad, if there were quite “sweet” questions, asked for a moment to think, and then found the necessary and true answer. I came to my mom for a weekend, it was not especially before me, and then I youthful freedom. The one where the beer with the boys, the naked knees of the girl and the pressing of the one at the fire in the evenings. I felt permissible there. I remember my mom stuck me with a girlfriend in their bedroom with their father, on their bed... There was a scream, and the worst threat, according to my mom, was “I call your father.” It hardly frightened me, because Dad was adequate.

I always knew who my father was, and who my father was, as if my mother didn’t bother me. I’ve always seen the contrast between father and father. If my father brought me something as a gift, then my younger brother, the son of another man from a woman he loved, even in the past, always received a gift of equal value. I remember my father told me that he was my “born brother.” And it was my dad who laid down my attitude to my brother, now we "do not pour water." No sarcasm, I very much love and appreciate this abortus, taking care of him exactly as much as possible without compromising his independence and wealth.

My dad always talked to me, the only oplew I got from daddy was when at the age of 14 he came home "blue in the isolant." Everything is always resolved by communication. Father, on the contrary, a little boasted of the belt and poured his brother or twisted his ears, so that he stood up. He screamed for nothing and forever ticked his finger in his chest, indicating that he was feeding them. So it continued until I was 15 years old, at that time I had been boxing for almost 6 years, because tennis and basketball my father rejected for uselessness in case of something on the street. At some point, I gained courage or stupidity and stood as a shield between my brother and father. Having picked out the dog’s guide, with which he stretched his brother’s back, I argued that “this is not a method of education.” My father came, for the first time. Then such moments happened periodically, Father often repeated that I was preventing him from raising his son, but I did not dare to sweep, and not because I was a boxer, but because my father would come. Although there were clashes, and even once, this wonderful creature grabbed its rifle to shoot me the ugly smith, but it's a different story.

Time passed, I fell in love with an absolutely amazing woman, she lived in a different city. She worked in a large company in a very miserable, advanced position. I raised my daughter, who was 9 years old at the time. Is it worth saying that a 9-year-old daughter is not a year-old child? We started building bridges, I went through “mama sleep with me in this room”, “mama you kiss him more often”, “mama hold me by the hand, not him”... I remember what my father was, I remember what and how to do not... For almost 6 years as we are married, daughters have been 15. Am I a “father” for her? No is. She never called me that word, and I never asked for it. At the very beginning, I said that “Papa” is a high title, for the first I suggest her to be friends.

And now it is happening so:

Help me with the lessons, or my mom is always screaming and I don’t understand anything.

I need to talk to you, but my mom doesn’t know.

I love you...

You know, let me not be “Papa,” but I am a father. And unlike her father, I remember when she had her birthday, I know what she is fascinated with, which of the boys she likes. And I am proud. I’m proud that she plays my guitar, that she’s learning great, that I’ve never raised my hand on her, that we have something to talk about. I am proud that she is my daughter!