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I don’t talk to my biodad. Last time I saw him was almost a year ago when we went to the funeral home for my uncle. My parents separated when I was 7 and got divorced many years after that.
My mom met her boyfriend more than 25 years ago and he’s my « real » dad. I love him very much but we don’t say it. It took us a long while before we could hug, I was reticent to have to share my mom. And I didn’t recognize his authority. I was still hoping my biodad would remember he had two daughters. I stopped hoping he would call on my birthday a few years ago and I have been happier.
My mom’s boyfriend is the one that lends me his drill, he comes to Ikea with me, he assembles furniture and he helped me move a million times when I came to Montreal. Every time I go home, he makes my coffee, he makes homemade fries and he shows me his new computer, his pond, his new TV.
These pictures show the shelves my dad bought for me at Ikea. He went there by himself after we had gone and what I wanted wasn’t there. He returned to buy them for me. And he lent me his drill. I don’t depend on people much and I came to see this drill thing as a big thing. He goes at my sisters and fixes things or he goes skiing with them. I never ask for anything but the little bit I have, I cherish.
I put books I’m selling on them and the gifts I put aside for future birthdays or Christmases.
Then there is the bookshelf he assembled for me. It was the first big piece of furniture I bought myself. I am still very proud of it.