When I was just two, my father passed away. He and my mother had separated long beforehand, and he had left the house when I was only 2 months old. I never got to know him, and he never really got to know me. He wasn't physically a part of my life growing up, but the impact he has on me - even to this day - has been immeasurable.

I was born in Philadelphia to my Puerto Rican mother and father. They had moved to Philadelphia from Puerto Rico shortly after my brother was born, ten years before I came into the picture. My brother remembers him very well because he was there for him when he was growing up. There are so many pictures of my brother and father, and even my sister, who was born a year and a half before me, has some pictures with him. Me? I have just one.

He's holding me in his arms, kneeling down in an airport. The only picture I have left of me and my dead father was when he was saying goodbye.

My father was no saint. He moved back to Puerto Rico with the hopes of finding a job and house for my mother, siblings and me. Not too long after, he had found someone else. My mother found out and left him. He refused to sign the divorce papers, so when he passed, my mother was in charge of everything. His funeral arrangements, his estates, everything. The other woman was pregnant with his fourth child when he passed.

I met my half sister when I was 19 years old. We talked about our dad, how proud he would be of us if he knew us, and how much my brother looked like him. I was at least held by him when he was still around; my sister wasn't even born yet.

I inherited a lot from my father. From what my mother tells me about him, I inherited his lips, eyebrows, slender body, love for writing and depression. She tells me that I am the most like my father out of all of her children. Hearing this never comforted me because I didn't know the man who helped to make me. I don't know his eyebrows, his sadness, or his writing ability. I only knew that one picture.

I didn't have a proper father figure growing up. I had an abusive stepfather who made it impossible to have a good childhood. He drove my only brother out of the house, and I grew up without him. My mother still regrets what she put us through to this day, but I don't blame her.

My father was a published poet in Puerto Rico. He had always wanted to write for a living, but he never quite made it. My mother has always told me that I could carry on his legacy and live the dreams he always had. I don't know if I want to be a writer because of him, but this passion I have must have come from somewhere.

In my late teens, I dealt with a lot of abandonment issues that stemmed from not having a stable father figure. I clung onto any guy who wanted my affection, whether they were good for me or not. I learned, and hurt, a lot in those years, but I never felt like he was to blame. How could I blame someone I didn't even know?

I've been assured all my life that my father loved me very much, but how could I ever know that? I never knew the guy, and as far as I was concerned, I sprouted from my mother alone. How could someone I didn't grow up with have so much to do with who I am as a person?

I met my father one night in a dream. It was my freshman year in college, almost four years ago, but I remember it so vividly. I was at a kitchen table, eating with my family, and my mom was weeping. I asked her why, and she pointed across the table. My father was sitting there, in front of me. His hair and beard had grayed, but his eyes were the same eyes I saw in his pictures. She told me to go talk to him, so I did.

Everything around us was light and white. He told me that he loved me very much and was with me wherever I was. He told me he was so proud of me for going to school and continuing what he loved doing. He hugged me tight, and then I woke up.

I called my mom that morning to tell her what happened. She cried and told me that she knew he was talking to me from wherever he was. I was told that it was a warning for something that may come, but that thing never came. That dream has haunted me for years, and I will never forget it.

I didn't think anything about growing up without a dad. I thought it was perfectly normal to be without a parent. Even though I saw my friends with both of their parents, I didn't think the life I was living was any different. When I got older, though, I grew more bitter about it.

My mother worked all her life to support her children. I wouldn't be where I was without her. My father had left her with two infants to support, and he didn't come back. He didn't come back for me, I thought. It took a long time, and a vivid dream, to realize that what happened in the past doesn't mean he loved me any less than his other children.

He would be so proud to see me now. I'm living with my brother, his firstborn son. He would be so happy to see his children getting along so well. He would be so happy to see that his last daughter has met and loved his first children. I know he loves me, and I know that I love him too.

It's okay to be angry when your parent has passed. It's okay to be in denial, or not even realize that you are who you are because of a dead parent. It's perfectly okay to be bitter when you see other people with their parents. Life goes on, but their memory lives on forever within you.

To my father, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for giving me your good looks, your hot temper, your love of writing, your sick sense of humor and your mental illness. Thank you for making me who I am, even though you weren't there when I was growing up. Thank you for coming to me in a dream to remind me of how much I meant to you. I love you very much, and I know my siblings do too.