My Father Wanted a Son. I Was Born a Girl.

Why don't we teach little girls how valuable they are?

It took me more than thirty years to begin daring to be myself.

I was always afraid of my father.

That fear was carved into my small heart a very long time ago, when I was still a little girl.

He never loved my mother.

He kept returning only because he wanted to use her.

I do not remember much else.

Only the fear.

The strange sounds coming from the bed beside me — sounds a child could not understand.

And the permanent feeling that I was never good enough for him.

I was not born a boy.

That was my crime.

In my own way, I tried desperately to please him.

I really did.

I learned to shake hands properly, the way boys were expected to.

At barely three years old, I learned to dive head-first into the deepest water.

And I learned to become silent whenever he was frighteningly tense.

I never truly knew him.

And yet I always missed him.

I spent nights sitting by the front door so I would not miss him in case he happened to come.

He did not.

Most of the time, he did not.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never become a good enough “son”.

I liked dolls.

Six years have passed since I last spoke to him.

And now I am standing in the middle of London, in the stairwell of a gym, holding my phone.

I am fighting tears.

My stomach is trembling.

His number is already entered.

All I have to do is press call.

Not one day has passed in those six years without me thinking about him.

I love my father.

I do not know why.

But I do.

He did not earn my love.

Still, I seem incapable of doing anything other than loving him.

With my heart, love is almost the only possible response.

I never truly hated him, although he wounded my soul countless times.

Today he posted a photograph.

He almost never does that.

He is a passionate fisherman.

And today he posted the thing he is most proud of:

A fish weighing almost forty kilograms.

It had always been his dream.

So many times he had spoken about the enormous catfish living in Lake Tisza.

I did not believe he would ever catch one.

But he did.

Fish do not particularly interest me.

What shocked me was my own reaction.

The moment I saw the photograph, I burst into tears.

Years of suppressed love suddenly broke through at once and would not leave me alone.

If I do not call him now, I never will.

His wife will answer the phone.

I know that.

They are probably still living the same script:

Dad in the armchair.

Opening a beer.

Watching television.

His wife serving him.

Dad would never get up from his beer to answer a ringing phone.

The phone rings.

Please don't answer.

What am I going to say?

What can anyone say after six years?

And then—

“Yes?”

His wife.

The same flat, emotionless voice I remember.

“Hello. Is Dad home?”

I do not introduce myself.

There is no point.

I doubt any other woman calls my father “Dad”.

She does not answer me.

She simply calls him.

The few seconds it takes him to reach the phone feel like hours.

I am fighting tears.

“Hi, my little girl…”

I hear surprise in his voice.

Nothing else.

Only surprise.

“Hi, Dad. Congratulations. I saw you caught that giant monster fish…”

What a ridiculous opening.

“Yes, I caught it,” he says proudly.

After that, everything becomes blurred.

I simply listen to him talking.

It does not matter what he says.

He is talking.

I talk too.

Happily.

He is glad to hear from me.

“Dad, I have to go now.”

“Of course, my little girl. Go on.”

“Dad! … I love you.”

I am crying.

Never in my life had I said those words to him.

For one second, he goes silent.

Perhaps it is too much after all these years.

“I love you too, my little girl.”

He said it too.

For the first time.

“Call me again sometime.”

Then the line goes quiet.

---

With tears in my eyes and happiness shaking through my entire body, I step into the gym.

I do not care what anybody thinks.

Every part of me is trembling with emotion and excitement.

Now I have a father.

(The cover image is only an illustration.)

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