I was 13 years old, and my siblings were two and four years younger when my dad dropped us off at our house. I remember the last gasps of snow were fading off, and the wet April day was trying to warm up. It was near Easter, so before we went inside, my dad pulled out a card.

“Happy Easter, from Dad, April and Baby Alandt.”

They were having a kid. I put on a strong face. Even as a young teenager, I’d had years of experience masking my true feelings. I smiled, gave a half-hearted congratulations and hugged him. Then I ran upstairs and balled my eyes out until I was hyperventilating and shaking. I couldn’t feel my face. What the hell? I thought. I never want to see him again. Then I didn’t.

Outside of a few surprise sightings on the highway and meet ups at coffee shops forced by my unwillingness to accept that he’d started a new life 25 minutes down the road, he was gone.

A year later, I had major knee surgery. No contact. Three years later, that same knee surgery, a time I deem the absolute lowest I’ve ever been in my life. Nothing. I screamed at therapists, checked out of friendships and isolated myself. It didn’t make sense to me. Divorce isn’t ever supposed to make sense, but abandoning your own kids, two of whom hardly knew a father that wasn’t fighting over custody, was unimaginable. I hated him, and I hated the fact that he ran my life while simultaneously not being a part of it.

I envied my friends, the fathers that were around to take them to baseball games and teach them how to become men of their own, the fathers that didn’t show up to their baseball practices and start a screaming match with their mother. I waffled between giving up on him and trying like hell to get him back, a sort of ex girlfriend I couldn’t make up my mind on.

Then my junior year in high school through my therapist as a conduit, he sent me a letter. 2-8-2018 @2302 hrs. Dated like a true policeman. The content sucked to read. It was a reshashing of all the issues from the past 10 years that, in his mind, led to him stepping away from parenting. I began to profusely cry as I sat in my car outside the therapist’s office, not because he had clearly ripped the longstanding bandaid off so many wounds I had tried to cover up with humor and a sarcastic approach to life. I noticed that his pen had, twice, run out of ink.

What I can only assume was him sitting alone at his townhouse kitchen table as late night turned into early morning rigorously pouring his heart into that letter. Then he ended the letter by saying something that’s stuck with me like a knife in my side since.

“All I ever wanted was the chance to be your father.”

I still catch myself crying about it. But it was like a door in my mind had swung open, and ever since I’ve realized why I’m here. I thought back to how my friends sat with me through both knee surgeries, how they laughed through all my pain with me. I recalled the time my friend’s dad asked me how I was and what my thoughts were about the whole “dad situation.” He reminded me that every one of my friend’s father’s was there for me for anything.

My friends, the ones I dearly love, talked with me when I looked upset and knew exactly how to cheer me up. The adults in the neighborhood I grew up in helped raise me, showing me how to be a kind, respectful, hard-working family man. My stepfather came into our lives and took over the “dad” role, even though he didn’t need to. He went above and beyond to talk me through all my failures and was always there to cheer on my successes.

That’s what being there meant to me. I was surrounded by a community of people who mobilized and helped out a kid flailing through life that stuck together when sh*t hit the fan. I found that same group of friends in college.

Their parents were there, caring, compassionate and ready to help. In August, my heart went into an arrhythmia. I was panicking and told my friend and his mother that my heart was pounding. My friend’s mother slapped her Apple Watch on my wrist — “226 beats per minute.” She had me lay down and stayed with me while my friend raced to get the car. After I was shocked out of the arrhythmia in the ER, they stayed with me until my mother could get to Syracuse despite having to drive back to Boston.

When I came home for my procedure, my friends knew I was going to be home for my 22nd birthday. So, despite their busy lives and living in colleges as far as four hours away, they all showed up. I almost cried out of pure happiness when they walked through the back door to surprise me. They were there for me at one of my low points.

My dad said in that letter that God has a place for everyone. He mistakenly thought his place was out of our lives. Now, as a young man myself, I know that’s not remotely close to what any sort of God had in mind. I’m only the person I am today because of the community of hard-working, blue collar friends and neighbors that helped raise me. I’m only the person I am today because of the best friends from home and at Syracuse that I could have asked for.

Life only makes sense if you stick by those you love and weather whatever storm comes through. I’ve been through a lot already: child of divorce, diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis at 18 months, undiagnosed heart condition at 21. Yet, everyone who cared about me stuck with me. That’s why I’m so ride or die with the people in my inner circle. Find a group of people that love you unconditionally and ride to the end of the f*cking Earth with them.

Published on December 7, 2023 at 2:52 pm

Contact Anthony: aalandt@syr.edu | @anthonyalandt