There were tears rushing down my face, gasping for air, paralyzed with anguish. On a dark, wispy night, my parents told me that they were getting a divorce. Consumed in fear, I had no idea how to respond. I mean, how in the world is a twelve-year-old supposed to take it? Crying, crying was the only action my body seemed to remember. I forgot how to breathe; I forgot how to speak, and I forgot how to smile. Our living room had become a broken tomb to what was a "perfect family." Cuddling with Dad, that was how I spent our last night as a family; to be honest, I wish that that moment never would have ended.

Through it all I thought I would be able to depend on Dad to be there for all of my childhood moments: pitching during my baseball games, playing catch, watching action movies, and listening to my problems. Our relationship worked just fine and dandy-- at first. Dad called every night to tell me he loved me and that he couldn't wait to see me. I still remember the night he made the promise, "Clay, I swear that someday I'll make it right, and your mother and I will be back together." Somewhere, deep down in my soul, I knew he was lying. The idea of that perfect family we once were had been washed away like footprints in the sand.

Eventually, the calls became less frequent until they completely stopped. There were no more goodnight calls from Daddy, no more "I love you's," and no more guy nights. It happened on that cold, chilly night, Thanksgiving night, when it finally clicked in my head: 'He doesn't want me anymore.' He hadn't come to see me pitch at any of my games. He never called or texted, and he hadn't invited me to his house in months. I was just another mouth to feed, not someone to love. Pretending to care, that was all he tried at in our relationship.

Sitting in my bed, the tears rushed down my face as I cried myself to sleep. The feeling of abandonment and rejection flooded my body like a dam's wall, finally giving way to a flood it could no longer embrace, and I only had one option left. I sat there and prayed. 'God? Are you there? Why doesn't he care about me anymore? I thought I was the son he wanted. Can't we just be a family again? Please.' My prayer never did come true.

'Why did I ever love him?' It seems to be the question I find myself asking every day. All he'd ever brought me was pain and sorrow. I can still hear myself gasping for air and crying my eyes out when the truth surfaced. 'He didn't love me anymore. Had he ever?'

Even through all of the trials and turmoil he forced me to face, I still have to thank him. In the long run, his being a crappy father is going to make me the greatest father imaginable. I will refuse to be a father who isn't there for the big game or the father who'd rather work than play catch. Sure, being a father is about providing, but it's not about how big the house is or where the kids go to school. To me parenting is going to be about loving my children more than they could ever imagine! Thanks, Dad, for teaching me what it means to be a father.