I have another father who stood with a woman, desperate to have children, and told an adoption agency, “Yes, we'll make her our daughter.” And then – less than 3 years later - chose to end his life, leaving the woman to pick up the pieces. His woman was never … stable … again.

I grew up with the second woman, the one who desperately wanted children and was forever damaged by her husband's suicide. She was, from what I've learned, no more unstable than the one who gave birth to me; she just chose to not quit. (I never appreciated – or understood – that before.)

But this isn't about the mothers – it's about the fathers.

Father #1: He was 25; she was 39. He had a family – wife and daughter; she had no one. I look like him – if the agency is to be believed – 6 feet tall, blond and blue eyed. He, from what I understand, had a problem committing to a career, a family … anything.

Father #2: He wasn't healthy; a hole in his heart (or so I was told) limited his physical activity. It also kept him from committing to a job, apparently – although drinking and gambling must not have been a problem, because he spent a great amount of time (and his wife's money) pursuing those activities. Although she didn't know it. One day, when he had gone off to a job that he no longer held, he came back home and handed his wife an empty pill bottle. She didn't drive, his family didn't arrive, and he died. I have my half of his suicide note.

This is Father's Day – it isn't a joyous occasion for everyone. Some of us miss our fathers. Some of us hate our fathers. And some of us wish, with all of our hearts, that we had a father.

Until next time.