My thirtieth birthday party, the day before my actual turn from one decade to the next, was a beautiful night. My mom, both pre-emptively staking out her territory as an Italian-American grandmother and (past but an adverb?) fulfilling regrets at never having been able to throw me a childhood party, brought too much food and snacks and love — or staying up and out past the early afternoon, which is a kind of love for us; my friends, older than me in years and with busy families and schedules, brought wisdom and comfort in growing older gracefully; and my friends closer in age drove great distances to celebrate me — or at least, with me.

The actual day passed uneventfully, cleaning and resting from the festivities, alone and at home with Joe. As the night wore on, however, I noticed, with (something something - mixed alarm, absence, desparation, and a painful normalcy) that I hadn’t heard from my dad, and I was suddenly borne ceaselessly back into the past.

After years of baggage and mixed-up emptions, ups and downs, I’ve entered a maintenance phase in my relationship with him: I maintain the most tenuous connection I possibly can while his mother, my grandmother, is still alive, and I have planned to sever those last vestiges when she passed. I’ve entertained fleeting fancies on what would happen when he goes — how I would find out, how I would react, if I would even bother to attend or instead seize it as an opportunity to enact my triumphant revenge by never showing up.

And yet, and yet, despite years of receiving a call on the wrong birthday, I’m back in the second grade, at an in-school Father’s Day celebration, waiting, waiting for any sign; mixed gratitude and crushing disappointment to see my maternal grandfather in my dad’s stead; and sunk lower by every playground busy-bpdy asking why my dad was so old and having to explain that it’s not actually my perfectly hale and hearty dad, who simply did not show up. I’m back in the schoolyard waiting for him — late again — to pick us up for his agreed upon custodial visits, so late the sun starts to set and a worried teacher contacts home seeing three abandoned kids who are realizing, slowly, that they are not important to their father. I’m back at my high school graduation and not bothering to invite him because I have almost two decades of experience to know the outcome, to know it’s better than to set myself up for disappointment by expecting him to show. I’m back at my college graduation, a tremendous, back-breaking accomplishment, shocked to see him show up but wishing he hadn’t as he makes it about himself: “I’m glad to see you’re not a fuck up like me.”

I am 30. Why now, on the cusp of starting my own family — of discussing the unsexy logistics of planned conception, (lack of sufficient) maternity leave, and childcare, do I need a call from my daddy on my birthday? Why have I not learned the lesson experience has so deeply (that isn’t the right word) taught me so many times over?

At a parent meeting for a beloved student, I sang praises about her while admiring the original: she is, in every respect — her mannerisms, dress, energy — her mother. A little shorter and less gray, but otherwise a carbon, in the ways that matter. And as I went home that evening and reflected, I wondered what in me I would pass along — those idiosyncrasies impossible to spot within oneself that would one day leave bemused teachers, friends, family to remark the same of my child and me.

And again, the lingering seven year old in me bubbled to the surface: what in me resembled my father — and, worse yet, what of his toxic line would seep (need a stronger verb, think like an oil spill) into another generation? Have I created enough distance to avoid his influence? Is there some latent biological evil in my genetics? And what of my traumas, my inability to move past my feelings of abandonment, would I, against my best efforts, inflict on my own?

People say girls look for their fathers in their partners. I’ve looked for the opposite. Joe is always gentle, always patient — the kind to drop everything just to be there for a friend in need. When I asked him if I had any mannerisms he thought I might pass along, he laughed and responded with a list, paramount upon which was my passion. He recalled nights at the movie theater sitting in a mostly one-sided conversation, listening to me monologue about some esoteric music bullshit and falling in love.

I hope for my children from me passion and devotion; that they stick wholeheartedly to that which — and who — they care about. I wish for them the softness that comes from having two parents who make them feel loved, valued, important.