No Thanks, Biological Father, OR, Believe it or not, inspired more by Tokyo Godfathers than a decade of disappointment

That’s right. I’m giving her away at the wedding. Not you, Dad. Me. Her brother, who’s been a better father figure for years anyway. I saved her from the suicide attempt. I helped her on the term papers. I watched all those shitty movies with her while you got high with your new wife. I’ve protected her, listened to her, had dinner with her, bought dinner for her, and had her wish she could buy dinner for me. One day in the middle of a study session I showed up with malted milk balls just because I’d heard he was craving some. I watched the national spelling bee with her fiancé. I picked up her dog’s ashes from the vet. What have you done for her other than contribute the occasional panic attack during Sunday night phone calls? Oh, but I forgot. We enable her. She made up her psychological issues, because secretly she enjoyed crying, cutting and spending a thousand nights alone in her room. That’s fine. You get those irrational beliefs. I get God, and I get to walk her down the aisle. If you want to be close when your daughter says, “I do,” you’d better show up early and get good seats. I’ll see you from the altar.