I was born to a pretty ideal nuclear family. One mom, one dad, one older brother. I had older half siblings but they were never overtly included in our day to day dealings, except the summers they visited. Then, my mother died. As a little child, I turned to my brother for comfort, comfort that he provided. I tried to protect him because he was more shy than me, and in turn he let me vent and rage and cry and just listened. My dad raised us. He re-married but the woman he married taught lessons that only hurt us and ultimately didn't "stick". He saw eventually that his attempt to replace our mother was hurting us and divorced her. He did his best to deal with being left with two children who were seeking a mother they'd never find. I dealt with the abandonment/rejection really harsh. As impatient my brother was with me though, he stuck with me through it. He let me rage and cry just as I had as a little girl and was there for me.

My brother moved out and it was just me and my dad.

We went on trips, when I was a teen. We drove all over. I remember a trip we drove up the pacific coast highway. We stopped someplace for a room, at a hotel.

"We only have a room with one king sized bed," said the lady at the desk.

Hadn't I ran crying to his room to share his bed when I was afraid of ghosts at the age of 4? Hadn't I been plagued by nightmares at age 11 of my mom dying that were only calmed by his snuggles on the couch watching Monty Python reruns? At 16 hadn't I dealt with the crushing divorce by crying my eyes out to my dad while laying on his bed in the wee hours, feeling comforted by his strong armed hugs and his reassuring "It'll be okay" murmurs? Share a bed with my own father..? Of course, no problem. I'm happy to.

This time I went to the car to grab our bags and returned to see my dad and this woman locked in a heated battle.

The look on her face, it will never leave my mind.

"I'll have to call the police if you insist on sharing a room with the young lady, SIR."

I felt sick to my stomach. When we got to the room, no doubt my dad would flip on the news while I went to shower, brush my teeth, and change into my PJs. By this time he'd have brewed coffee, and I'd fall asleep reading in bed. I'd wake up likely later than my dad, but even if I did before, he'd be in his sweats and shirt, snoozing away and utterly relaxed. I'd probably cover him with more of the blanket, roll over, and fall back asleep.

Apparently this warrants calling the police. Because even sleeping in the same bed as your teenaged daughter is the same thing as pedophilia or rape or prositution or any other ugly thing because my GOD, what is a man doing with a young girl?!

We got a room and no call to the police. But this made me pretty aware of how my father's relationship to me was viewed. His harmless nicknames and harmless actions were being viewed and judged and scrutinized in a bubble. This was made apparent a year later. My father kept me from my mother's family because they were toxic, but once I became a teenager he told me about them and paid for me to visit and reconnect ("When you were young I felt it was unfair but I feel at this age you can make your own decisions"). Out of respect for them he never spoke of how my mother's sister had attempted to seduce him and tell him he should marry her so she could raise us, mere months after her death. But they had no problem trying to dig up every flaw or fault of his, to try to show me how unfit of a parent he was.

By this point I was relatively immune. I was raised to be untrusting and ask a lot of questions. When adults got angry at my questions, I became only more suspicious. His whole theory was that parental duty is to raise a thoughtful, curious being who questions everything and thinks critically.

This side of my family was infuriated that I wouldn't forsake my father. I wouldn't speak ill of him. I ignored them when they spoke poorly of him. I wanted to like them, but they seemed hellbent on making me hate my dad and I wasn't okay with it.

Then the comments about my grandfather began. My grandfather was an alcoholic in the years leading up to him and I even meeting.. me even existing. From me being as little as I can remember he admitted to this and talked freely about it. Suddenly, allegations were being thrown around that he was a pedophile. That he had touched my aunt (his own daughter) and maybe even my mother.

I got this weird sense at the mention of my mother that it was an attempt to illicit a response from me.

My grandmother asked me how I felt about these allegations. I knew my relationship with my grandfather. In those moments, I knew that this was all basically because of me. They didn't handle my mother's death and they were psychopaths. They didn't care if my grandfather got tossed under the bus, as long as they manipulated me.

"He didn't."

That was all I said, and it started a shit storm. My Aunt screaming at me that clearly I hated her and my mother.

Then, my grandmother crying that she wished I loved them enough to "tell the truth".

My Uncles saying I shouldn't be protecting someone so horrible. My brother and father were blissfully welcome.

"Did he ever touch you or speak wrong?" my dad asked, only after I told him what had been "revealed" and how that part of the "family" had reacted.

I told him no. And I meant it. My grandfather treated me like gold. He told me I looked like my mother and was a beautiful little girl (which all parents should tell their kids, IMO), and he never once touched me or did anything to me that wasn't what a grandfather did. I have a fond memory of us sitting on the beach in Maui when I visited him in Hawaii, us sitting on our sandals and him showing me the various constellations at 4am on the beach. He gave me memories- he treated me with the love and respect that my father and my brothers similarly treated me with. I don't think it's a coincidence I chose as a life partner a man similar to all of them. My mother's family tried to give me nightmares where he gave me guidance. And they tried to give me doubts on top of it all.

My father loved me while I struggled. He gave me his opinion, I could tell he was infuriated.. but when I realized it was all bullshit, the pride in his eyes couldn't have been clearer.

I could still tell he was angry and I was too, though.

I should have been allowed what happiness and joy I felt. I should have been allowed what comfort and pleasure I found lying and being enfolded in my father's arms. Ultimately though, it was killed. These leeches had made me question something pure.

I am posting this for a few reasons.

The first.. male impact is a huge impact. Men are important. I could go into detail about my life, my friends, those I love, what we all value.. but ultimately, I just feel like having had male influences has been beneficial.

The second.. I want equal and fair oppurtunity for women but not for a second do myself or many other women forget the unfair odds fathers are up against. We love you. Not as outsiders, but as daughters.. Thank you, and again, and again. You are thankless warriors.

I'm not perfect. I am impatient with my partner. At times, I try to "suss out" his feelings instead of asking directly. Sometimes his words hurt me and I withdraw instead of telling him. But I appreciate his big warm hands. I appreciate his steady words. I appreciate that he appreciates me- that I am wordy, that I am intense.

I use a fake name here (and private message me for the real) but.. I love you. I love men. And please don't forget it- on behalf of us grown, happy ladies and the growing, confused girls out there. There's a lot of adversity and a lot of misplaced anger and accusations. Your steadfast belief and pure existence means more to me than I think you know. Thank you men, for being men. It's not fair the total shit you face but please know.. we love you as much and even more because of it.