When I was five years old, my parents got a divorce. I don't remember much of what happened. I just knew one day, we were living together in a house where I shared a room with my sister, and my parents--my mommy and my dad, slept just a few steps down the hall. At least, they did---until they didn't. My memories of my life pre-divorce are scarce and vague. The few I still have though are as clear as day, and no matter how hard I want to forget--I can't.

From the moment I was born I never wanted to leave my mother. It's a story that has it's fair share of being circulated when we meet people or gather around as a family to reminisce of days past. I had to see my mother clearly--or I'd cry and scream. If I was on the verge of sleep and I left her arms, I'd wake up and let out the most defiant cry. It infuriated a lot of people and got me this pretty weird diagnosis: "Separation Anxiety". I don't really think it was what the doctors claimed it to be, but that's a different story for another time.

As I got older my need to be with my mother only grew with me. I had the tendency to get sick, and she was the only one who was able to remain calm despite her own fear of her own child's mortality. I never once saw her cry, or even heard her argue about how frustrated she was. When I remember being hooked up to breathing machines and having mean, evil doctors stabbing my arms with needles--I remember my mother comforting me, telling me it was going to be okay. I had to believe her, right? She was my mom.

But, what about my dad? He was there until one day he decided he was no longer needed. That was post-divorce. Post-hospital visit and near-death experience of his five year old daughter. He said that all I ever wanted was my mother--not him, but my mom. I saw him and I cried, and begged for mommy. I was a Momma's Girl as clear as they come.

But I had every reason to be. I had no option. As a kid, you stick to the person who makes you feel safe. The one who shows you it's okay to be scared, and that it'll be okay.

That person was my mom. But as I got older and my mom became less available--I wanted a dad. I wanted the person who was supposed to threaten all the boys who would want to date me. I wanted the guy who was supposed to teach me to ride a bike, to shoot, to play sports. But I never had him.

I had alternatives. My grandfather taught me to ride a bike, but I never got past the training wheels. My grandfather bought--and still buys me flowers for Valentine's Day, and tells me he loves me. He taught me to fish, how to cast a line.

Somewhere along the way I figured out that this person that I shared half of my DNA with was nothing more than that--DNA. I snuggled up to him, cried for him, begged for him to want me just as I had done for my mother when I was a kid. He either didn't notice, or he chose to ignore it. But every time he dropped me off at home after a rare and hard-fought visit I'd run straight to my mother, cry and ask her: "Why won't he love me? What did I do, mom? Why won't he look at me?"

But, even though it took me forever to realize it--I had someone I would call my dad. We met when I was eight. My first memory of him was him giving me a Christmas gift--Freaky Friday on DVD (Lindsey Lohan version--not the classic). There is this scene in the movie where Lindsey's younger brother turns to their future step-dad and says: "We can either do this the easy way...or the hard way." Almost immediately after, I turned to face him, unaware that he would most certainly become my step-dad, and my actual dad in the future--and repeated the lines. The whole family cracked up. Next thing I knew, he asked me and my sister if he could marry our mom. When I was 15, they got married after almost 8 years of an engagement. In that time I had lost so much potential bonding with my biological father, and began to pick up on the things my step-dad did when he was around.

Heck, he was starting to do the same with me. He will tell anyone who will listen that he can tell what my mood is like just by how I hold my head as I walk through the living room. I'll deny it every chance I get, but the point is he notices me. He notices when I'm upset, even if it isn't based on how I'm holding my head. He knows how to make me laugh, angry, and happy.

He knows the one way to cure all of my problems, heartache, and to prevent the sky from falling around me is to come home and cook his famous beef stew. He knows me--and I know him more than I know the person I share a nose, or a weird habit of going to sleep with two socks and waking up with one without even noticing. There is a reason I dreaded Father's Day for so long--because I didn't have a father to celebrate. I didn't have a reason to write an ode to the man who gave me life, who did this or that which made me who I am today--if anything, I just had a long list of disappointments and things I have had to live without.

But this year that's different. I don't know why this year it is when in 2013, legally speaking, it was different. I don't know how it's different for me now when I haven't spoken to my bio-dad, let alone seen his face in at least four years--maybe more--and I've lost his family name.

I think the reason it's different is because, in 2014 I went to my first NASCAR race. It was a perk from my step-dad's company. We had garage passes and being the cool-dad he is, he got extra tickets--better tickets--for the next and last NASCAR race the following day. The 2014 Sprint NASCAR cup. When we were in concessions, preparing to head up to our seats for that particular race--he began laughing. I was teasing him because I swore he must have had this sparkling tear in his eye (he'll deny it). He said, "Y'know, I actually feel like a dad." I laughed, hugged him and said: "Well, I feel like I have one."

That was such a pivotal moment for me--to have someone acknowledge that being a dad--that being my dad--was amazing.

And even though those moments are rare and don't come around very often, I had another one of them just recently.

My dad---he got me my first car. Being the dad he is, he spends his entire week home working on my car, and every free moment he has outside of that he spends looking for ways to make it better. He says he does it because he loves me, and he wants me to have the best--because I deserve it.

I texted him to let him know I saw the amazing things he had gotten for my car for his next trip home, and he called me (Shocker!) What came next almost brought me to tears.

"You know, I miss you. I know you haven't been feeling well--and I get it, you're sick and you have bad days. But I'll be home next week, and I want to spend time with you. I want to go to some estate sales, maybe take you to get that dessert I told you about last time. I want to spend time with you--that's the point isn't it? You're my kid, dammit. I want you--I love you, and I want to spend time with you." I laughed, and agreed that I'd do as he asked to the best of my ability. When he had to go, I wrote a poem. I don't think I'll share it, but in essence, it was about how sometimes we often become so used to not having something, that even when we finally have it, we forget until there comes a moment--much like the phone conversation, or the NASCAR race--that makes us realize that the very thing we had forced ourselves to live without, we had all along.