When the Rose-Colored Glasses Finally Fall Off

I’ve always known there were cracks in the foundation when it came to my dad. But for 37 years, I did my best to patch them with duct tape made of hope, second chances, and those damn rose-colored glasses. Glasses I’ve clung to tighter than I probably should’ve. But today? Today they shattered.

This isn’t the kind of post I ever thought I’d share. But the truth is, this isn’t just my story — it’s the story of every kid, even grown, who’s been waiting for a parent to simply show up and love them the way they deserved from day one.

 

Let’s Back Up

 

My parents were babies themselves when they had me. My mom was 15. My dad? 14 when I was born. Which means my dad was barely 13 when my mom got pregnant. They were still kids trying to figure out life, carrying their own trauma, and suddenly, there I was.

It’s easy to look at that and have empathy. I do. They were young, lost, hurting. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized — at some point, your own pain stops being an excuse for how you treat other people, especially your kids.

 

 

 

 

The Pattern That Never Changed

 

My dad’s been… inconsistent at best. The earliest memory that still clings to me happened when I was barely in kindergarten. He promised he’d pick me up after school. I sat on that curb, watching every car that passed, waiting, excited… until the schoolyard emptied, and it was just me, still waiting. He never came.

No call. No explanation. Just silence. My cousin eventually found me and took me home, but that moment carved a scar into my little-kid heart I’ve been trying to heal ever since.

It didn’t stop there. Middle school? High school? Volleyball games, band concerts, cheer competitions — promises made, promises broken. Graduation? He says he was there… but I don’t remember seeing him. Because even if he physically showed up, he was never really there.

 

 

 

 

The Hope That Won’t Die

 

Despite it all, I kept reaching out. My whole life, it’s been me making the effort. Me sending the texts. Me trying to keep the door cracked open just wide enough that maybe, maybe, he’d walk through it.

People love to say, “You’re an adult now, it’s your responsibility to reach out.” But what they don’t see is — I’ve been doing that my whole life. At some point, it’s not enough for one person to do all the work. A relationship is a two-way street… but when only one person is walking that road, eventually it turns into a dead end. A brick wall, ten feet high, impossible to get around.

And that’s exactly what it feels like with my dad. Like I’ve been sprinting toward that wall for 37 years, hoping this time, maybe, the bricks will move. And sometimes, they did — just the tiniest bit. While climbing that wall, you can feel some of the bricks wiggle, that give you extra hope that maybe this time that wall is coming down — only to be met with the same cold reality.

 

 

The Wedding Shower That Shattered the Rose-Colored Glasses

 

Fast forward to now… I’m 37. I’m planning my wedding. And despite everything — the missed visits, the broken promises, the letdowns — I still invited him.

Against my better judgment.

Honestly, I wasn’t going to invite him.

When we were still planning the wedding stateside, I went back and forth constantly — not just because I didn’t want to face the disappointment of scanning the crowd and wondering if he actually showed up… but because I didn’t want to have to make an impossible choice.

Who was going to walk me down the aisle?

My dad — the man who gave me life but never really showed up for it?

Or my stepdad — the man who’s actually been there for me all these years?

It wasn’t just him, either.

I had the same struggle with my biological mom and my adoptive mom.

The whole situation was tangled with guilt, fear, and old wounds I didn’t want weighing down what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life.

Honestly? Choosing to go to Jamaica for our wedding made that decision real easy.

It gave me the space to release some of that guilt — the impossible “how do I honor everyone” guilt — and finally focus on what this day is supposed to be about… me, my partner, and the life we’re building together.

But even then… I still gave my dad compassion he didn’t deserve.

I still reached out.

I still gave him the invitation.

Because despite it all, I still wanted to believe he could show up.

And then… the same old pattern.

Days turned to weeks, and I couldn’t get a straight answer from him about the shower.

Finally, I get this text — telling me how busy he’s been with the Freemasons.

How many funerals he’s organizing.

How, oh by the way, he has a memorial at the exact time of my bridal shower, but maybe he could swing by afterwards if we were still there.

And here’s the kicker…

He texted me to tell me this.

He initiated the conversation — over text.

But when I responded?

When I sent a voice message — pouring my heart out, expressing how hurt I was, explaining exactly why this was so hard for me?

Suddenly, that wasn’t acceptable.

Suddenly, I should’ve called.

Suddenly, my way of communicating wasn’t valid.

Because it’s not really about the method of communication.

It’s about control.

It’s about avoiding the hard, messy truth I was laying down in that message.

It’s about silencing the part of me that finally found her voice.

But for the first time… I didn’t just sit with the hurt.

I didn’t brush it under the rug.

I didn’t make excuses for him or hope he’d magically make it better.

I told him:

“You know what? I’d rather you not come to the shower after all.”

Because as much as I wanted him there…

The truth is, it hurt too bad.

The situation, the avoidance, the gaslighting — it hurt more than the thought of him not showing up at all.

And for the first time, I gave myself permission to set the boundary.

To say no.

To protect my peace.

He can go do what he needs to do.

And I? I’ll be okay without him there — because honestly, I’ve been okay without him there my whole life.

 

 

The Rose-Colored Glasses Are Gone

 

I’m not angry anymore. I’m heartbroken. But I’m also awake.

I’ve been waiting for a dad to show up for me for the last 37 years — clinging to the hope that one day, my biological father would finally love me the way I’ve always wanted him to.

But the reality is… I’ve had a dad showing up for me for the last 30 years.

My stepdad.

A man who never had to take on that role. Who wasn’t obligated by blood or circumstance. Who didn’t raise me because I was in foster care — but who has been there for me as an adult in ways I never imagined.

When I was coming out of addiction — strung out, lost, broken — it was him who gave me a place to land. It was him who came to the hospital and brought me home.

When I’m sick? Need something? He’s there. Always just a phone call away.

And now, with this wedding… he’s contributing to that too. Showing up — yet again — without hesitation, without strings, without resentment.

I forget sometimes that I’ve already had what I’ve been chasing my whole life.

And I’m finally at a point where I can say — it’s okay not to get that love, approval, affection, and time from the one man I always thought I needed it from.

Because at the end of the day? Blood doesn’t make you family.

The people who show up for you — they’re the ones who matter.

And I’ve learned that now.

 

The Universe Has a Funny Way of Timing Things

 

The craziest part of all this?

As this storm was brewing with my dad, I got a message from one of my sisters.

The sister I barely know.

The one I’ve been scared to reach out to because of the invisible walls he’s put up.

But this time?

She cracked the door open.

I told her how I was feeling about the latest disappointment.

The wedding shower.

The excuses.

The letdown… again.

And instead of dismissing it or defending him?

She validated me.

She’s been through it too.

The broken promises.

The absence.

The chasing love crumbs from someone who only shows up when it benefits them.

And in that moment?

Years of hurt?

Instantly softened.

Because suddenly…

It wasn’t just me.

It wasn’t because I wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t my fault.

It was his pattern.

It was generational cycles.

It was him… not me.

 

 

 

The Hurt Is Real… But So Is the Healing

The situation with my dad?

It’s messy.

It hurts.

It’s complicated.

But today reminded me…

Healing doesn’t always come from the person who hurt you.

Sometimes, it comes from the people who get why it hurt.

The ones walking their own version of your story.

The ones willing to sit in the hard, uncomfortable truth with you.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not fixed.

But it’s healing.

And that’s enough for now.

If you’ve ever carried quiet, invisible hurt because someone couldn’t show up for you?

You’re not alone.

And you were always worthy of being chosen.

 

XO - Ashley Jo 💋