A typical family consists of a father, a mother, and children. This arrangement was usually an indicator of a happy family life when I was younger, or at least to me it seemed like it. All the happy people in my class had a complete set of parents and siblings that they went on trips with and played with after school. Back in grade school and high school, family days would happen annually, where families would gather to participate in the programs prepared by the teachers and eat food that was prepared by each family. I barely attended them; I could count the times I went to our school’s family days with one hand. When I did attend, it was usually just with my mom.

I never really paid close attention to our family structure for most of my childhood, but as I got older, I realized I was surrounded by complete families. I would look at fathers carrying their daughters, wishing that I could have the same thing. When I had the chance to spend time with my own father as a child, I was always happy. We would go out, eat, and watch movies at Gateway Mall. My father would hoist me up in his arms and carry me around while pointing things around the mall. Those were the days I felt like a normal kid with a complete family.

At ten years old, I started noticing that my father stopped coming home. There were no calls, and my mother never told us when he would visit anymore. I vaguely remember asking her about it once, but I knew more than to ask my mother again, so I kept quiet.

At eleven years old, it was revealed to me that my parents had the intentions of separating. I never knew it was possible for those things to happen. I was a child who didn’t completely understand it, but I felt angry. It was one of the worst days of my life. I was upset with everything, and it was hard for me to accept the situation.

For most of my adolescence, I held a grudge. I resented that the normalcy in my family had slipped away. I was going to be different, and I was going to lose a parent. I tried to stay as clueless as possible, but there were times when I couldn’t keep my emotions bottled up inside. I would cry to my friends who didn’t understand what was going on, and to myself until I fell asleep. I was so angry that I tried to get my way in everything: I would throw tantrums when I couldn’t get what I wanted, and I would get irritated when no one would attend to my demands. I would let my outbursts out on my sister a lot, and there were instances when she thought I despised her. I was selfish, but I kept thinking that it was okay because of the condition my life was in. I felt like the world owed me something because my life turned out this way.

I was upset when my mother finally acknowledged the situation to me; that moment made everything feel real. It took me a while to completely accept it, because my father’s absence became more tangible to me. My mother was nothing short of understanding when I was releasing the hostility that built up in me. She gave me more love than any other person did. I slowly came into terms with the circumstances because I started to notice how everyone else would love me.

I was happy being in school because of my friends. They would make me laugh on any normal day and they would let me cry without forcing me to tell them what was wrong. After school, I would arrive home to the sight of my grandmother waiting for me by the balcony, welcoming me with open arms and asking me what I wanted for dinner. At night, my sister would tuck me into bed and kiss my forehead, and I would feel her embrace me before I fell asleep. My mother would make me feel like I was a daughter that any parent would want to have, comforting me when I made mistakes and praising me when I succeeded. She had always given me the love I thought I was missing. I was blinded by what I didn’t have to see what I did. I was surrounded by so much love and I didn’t realize it beforehand.

It isn’t easy to move on from this kind of experience. Sometimes I find it strange that I’m trying to move on from having separated parents when it has been like that nearly all my life. Years have passed and I still struggle a little with adapting to my family’s current state, but I’d like to think that I’m doing a lot better now than I had been back in sixth grade.

I’m 19 years old now, doing my best in college and making the most out of my time here. I was able to meet more people that I could relate with when it came to this situation. I still have moments when I feel a dull ache in my chest looking at my uncles hugging their daughters and seeing posts in social media from people that I know who are spending quality time with their fathers, but I’m satisfied knowing that I have a mother who loves me just as much as two parents, if not more, and a sister who loves me like a mother. I have friends who watch out for me, and a partner who deeply cares for me. I have uncles and aunts who show affection to me and my sister like we’re their own, cousins who treat us like their own sisters, and a grandmother who would give the world to us.

A typical family consists of a father, a mother, and children. My family consists of my mother, my sister, my extended family members, my friends, and my partner. I found more love in the absence of a love that I was yearning for, and it makes me feel like the luckiest person in the universe. I am more than loved. I see that now.