To be honest, I don't remember Father's Day when I was a child. (Nor Mother's Day for that matter.)
I guess after one's father dies, it's hard to care or think about it without hurting. Without being jealous of everyone else.
I learned very early on to get under people's skin and be highly amused at their reactions.
"What are you doing for Father's Day?"
"My father's dead."
The reaction never gets old.
I know, I know, gallows humor, but after all these years, I can't help but smile at this.
I've had 20 plus years to deal with this. 20. Twenty. It's almost unreal that one day I will be older than my father.
It took me a very very very long time to accept my step-father as my dad. Growing up with Bill was, to put it lightly, very hard. Granted, I was an undiagnosed hormonal teenage girl; I know I wasn't easy to deal with or parent. And on his end, I was the first daughter he ever encountered. Talk about a steep learning curve.
But accept him I do. He will walk me down the aisle when I get married (that is, if Jack and I can ever get our act together to plan this damn thing) whether or not he wants to. I am proud to say that I'm his first daughter. I may not be his favorite (oh come on, people, EVERYONE knows that my sister is the favorite. :P ), but I'm the first and really, the best, and the smartest, and the one that is amazing.
So, thank you Daddy and thank you Bill for raising me, both in your own strange fashion. I know for a fact that I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for you two.