I was the kind of kid who wanted to be wherever my dad was.
Didn’t matter if it was the barbershop, the hardware store, or just driving in circles — I wanted in.
His shadow was my dream real estate.
And to his credit, he let me tag along.
Mostly.
What he didn’t say was that I wasn’t tagging along —
I was tagged in.
As cover.
As credibility.
As the tiny, unsuspecting co-star in a series of morally questionable errands.
He’d make plans with me.
Big ones. Ice cream, a movie, maybe a bookstore.
Plans that sounded like fatherhood.
Plans that were believable enough to say out loud to his wife.
And then…
“Just one stop first.”“Won’t take long.”“I’ll be right back.”
Cue: me in the car.
Windows cracked.
Doors locked.
Nothing but my vivid imagination and a half-full water bottle to sustain me.
Sometimes it was a bar.
Sometimes it was a random building.
Once I think it was a pharmacy that didn’t even have a sign.
I wasn’t scared.
I was just… confused.
And loyal.
Until I wasn’t.
---
There was this one time — I think I was 14.
He had promised me something I was actually excited about.
I don’t remember what it was, just that it didn’t happen.
Instead, I ended up sitting awkwardly at a beachside lunch with
— and I quote my younger self —
“some really old wrinkly white women.”
I went home and told my very red-haired, very white stepmother.
She was… not thrilled.
And neither was he.
Apparently, loyalty has conditions.
So does silence.
That may have been the beginning of the end
for believing his “plans” at face value.
I still went along sometimes.
But I brought suspicion with me.
---
And here’s the kicker: even as I got older, the “wingchild” gig didn’t exactly retire.
No, it just upgraded.
He started bringing women around me — sometimes under perfectly normal pretexts, sometimes not.
Like it was some covert casting call, and I was the judge.
Did I like her?
Was she good enough?
Did she pass the “Dad’s Approval” test?
If I didn’t vibe with a woman he really liked, oh, he would work to change my mind.
Hard.
Suddenly she was cooking my favorite food, learning my favorite songs, turning into this mythical unicorn just to get my stamp of approval.
It was less about me and more about him —
needing me to bless his choices so he could feel less guilty, less exposed, less… alone in the whole mess.
---
Now, older and emotionally hydrated,
I look back and laugh —
but also, not really.
Because there’s something quietly brutal
about being used by someone
you only ever wanted to be close to.
Even if they smiled.
Even if they meant well.
Even if, technically,
you did get to hang out with your dad.
