One Man's Loss... Another's Gain

Having no father was an awkward thing to explain as a six year old, so I told my new grade one class-mates that my dad had been killed in the war.

I liked the ‘killed in the war’ story because my best friend Susan had a father whose arm had been blown off in some war somewhere and the government gave him money for being a hero. Losing an arm was nothing – I’d lost a whole father! And besides, the idea of a bullet-infested father dying for his country, like the soldiers on the telly in Combat, was a better story than saying ‘He left when I was little’.

I don’t remember Mum announcing that she and the man we called Uncle Richard were getting married, but I do remember waiting eagerly at the front gate and standing on tippy toes until I could see his head bobbing over the hill as he walked home from the railway station. ‘Uncle Richard’s here! Uncle Richard’s here!’ The best thing about Uncle Richard was that at the age of seven, I was getting my own, real, permanent, dad.

My brother and I called Uncle Richard ‘Dad’ from the moment he and Mum were married. Even though Mum had explained that he was technically our stepfather, and we his stepchildren, I was glad to drop the step bit, and with it, the images of poisoned apples and dark forests.

So now I technically had two fathers: one absent, one present; I also had two surnames: one old, one new. On the first day of grade two we all sat on the floor with our legs crossed, looking up in anticipation at our crotchety new teacher as she called out our names. As each name was called we were to stand up and say Present! in our loudest voice.

‘Fiona Hilliker.’ That was me. I stood up.

‘Present!’

I sat back down. A few names later:

‘Fiona Trembath.’ That was me, too. I stood up again.

‘Present!’

Mrs Gillespie shushed the giggling class, and glared at me over the rim of her glasses, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

I quickly told her that Mum had married during the summer holidays and that I had a new surname. She struck her pen through the first name and from that moment on Fiona Hilliker no longer existed.

A few years later we got a sister and then a brother. I didn’t know it back then, but with the arrival of our half-siblings, our family had officially blended.

Fast forward thirty-five years and it was my turn to now become a stepparent. I don’t know what event precipitated the phone call to my mother in those early, catastrophic stepmother days, but I knew I had to call someone for survival tips.

‘How did Dad do it?’, I asked Mum.

‘Do what?’

‘How did Dad take on the role of stepparent, without cracking up, like I think I’m going to do?’
‘Maybe you should ask him,’ she said. ‘But I don’t remember it being an issue.’
I called Dad and asked him the same question.

‘I just did it, that’s all. You and your brother were part of the package. I loved your mum, so there was no question that I wouldn’t love you as well. Besides, you were easy. Great kids.’

I didn’t feel any better about my own perceived shortcomings as a stepparent after the conversation with Dad, but it did cause me to reflect on the thirty-five years he’d been in my life.
Dad was only twenty-two years old (seven years Mum’s junior) when he embraced the role of stepfather to a seven year old and nine year old; he’d also overseen and supported our education and careers; he’d loved our mother (even though they divorced 20+ years later); he’d given us the gift of another brother and sister; and, as a journalist and poet, he brought the love of words and writing into my life.

That was a lot to be grateful for, I realised, and I’d never once taken stock of it. …Until now, as I stood in similar step parenting shoes that he had worn thirty-five years before.

For the moment, surely I could put my woes behind me and express a little gratitude to the man who’d helped shape my life? So I called Dad back and thanked him. Really thanked him. (He still insists it was easy. I still don’t believe him.)

As much as my biological father’s absence shaped who I was to become, so too, did the presence of my stepfather, my ‘dad’.

Because when a daughter loses a dad – in a forest, in a war, or in any inexplicable circumstance – a stepdad can the next best thing. Well it was for me, anyway.

Thanks again, Dad.