T oday has never been easy for me. Nor has it been easy for my boys. You see, it’s Father’s Day. A day in which to honor the man who is responsible for your being here. A day to celebrate the role model you hope to one day become.

So, to all of those men who have taken on the responsibility of raising a child to the best of their ability — the ones who struggled, yet still endured, just to ensure their child would have a better life than they did … I say to you, “Happy Father’s Day.” I say to you, “Thank you.”

And then there are the absentee fathers. Men who opted to walk away without ever having set eyes on the one who shares their blood, their genes, their personality traits. The guys who left their accountability in someone else’s hands. The ones who decided life would be easier without having to listen to a baby cry or having to spend money on such insignificant things such as diapers.

The ones who didn’t want to be tied down to all of those family-togetherness moments.

To these men whom God blessed with a child they want no part of, I say to you, “Happy Father’s Day.”

Because for all of your denial, for all of your staying away, for all the anger you feel about the situation, at the end of the day, you are still a father. Whether you wanted to be or not. And it is not too late to change.

My children know firsthand about fathers who weren’t there. It has broken their hearts. And that, in turn, has broken mine. They silently accepted the fact there has only been me. But in that silence, I know they are devastated. But still, I would always find a Father’s Day card on the kitchen table waiting for me. How amazing is that?

I could fill this entire Sunday edition with the reasons why my children deserved to have a father. But I can not think of one sentence as to why someone wouldn’t want to claim these beautiful souls as their own.

I am extremely blessed they are mine. And I would take on the roles of mother and father over and over again. For them.

I lost my dad five years ago. So for me, Father’s Day has never been the same.

Not that the holiday was ever celebrated with any fanfare when he was here. There were no Hallmark-touching moments we shared on this date. But at least he was here. At least when I picked up the phone and dialed his number, he answered.

No one answers anymore.

I was 46 when my dad died. To this day, it hurts. It hurts as much as it did when I was 6 years old after my parents divorced. And he went away.

Throughout the years and for whatever reason, there wasn’t that closeness between us which fathers and daughters sometimes share. Growing up, there were times when something came up and he was too busy to see me. There were other commitments he had to attend to.

As an adult, I became too busy. Busy with work. Busy with children. Busy with life. Somehow, too busy to stay in touch as much as I could have — as much as I should have.

Sure, there were phone calls for Father’s Day and birthdays. An occasional visit here and there to play board games and visit briefly with him at the senior center where he liked to spend his days.

But there should have been more. There should have been a lot more.

And while weeks or months would go by without us seeing one another, he was always there when I truly needed him to be. Like at my high school and college graduations. To walk me down the aisle. At my children’s birthday parties and for many Christmas Eve dinners at my mother’s house. Most of the time I took those moments for granted because … well, because that’s what a dad does. He is supposed to show up when asked.

But there is one particular occasion that stands out in my mind of a time when he showed up. And it was then that I truly understood. Like a lightbulb went off inside of my head.

It wasn’t about showing up just because that’s what a father does. This moment taught me just how much my father honestly cared. How much he loved my children and me without ever having to say so.

I had a small going away party for my youngest son who was leaving that week after enlisting in the Air Force (the branch my dad was insistent that he join.)

As I was making sure everyone at the restaurant had been tended to, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. A man walking very slowly, very cautiously, all the while trying to catch his breath. An oxygen tank, his new best friend, at his side.

Despite the horrific toll cancer had taken on his body and despite the unimaginable pain the chemotherapy had left him in … he was there. I was not expecting that. I am still so thankful my brother brought him so he could say good-bye.

I recall the moment I said my final goodbyes to the man I should have been the closest to in this life. It was a phone conversation in which I kept repeating, “Happy Birthday. I love you.” Whether he heard, I will never know. But I like to think he did. I like to believe that he knew how very much I loved him.

To this day, I am heartbroken. To this day, I am mad. I am so damn mad.

Mad because life was never fair to him. Mad that his mother walked out on him and his family when he was only a child. Mad he had to endure years fighting in Vietnam — a war in which none of us can begin to understand.

Except for those who also went through it.

I am mad he suffered every day for the rest of his life with those effects from that war. A war which ultimately changed him and each and every soldier who was fortunate enough to come home. And I am mad, no, more than mad at the way “home” treated him and those soldiers upon their return.

He never spoke of those times to me. I’m not sure if he talked about them to anyone.

But I know he was heroic. I know you don’t earn Bronze Stars for valor and Purple Hearts for nothing. And I only know of his medals because my mother told me.

He was quiet about his life. Maybe because he didn’t want to remember. Maybe because he was trying to forget. Maybe he was quiet about his life because it hurt too much. Maybe he felt he had to appear strong and as though nothing ever bothered him.

At least that is what I’ve always believe. And for these reasons, I would like those who have ever loved him to know that I believe he loved you back the best that he knew how. War had changed him. Life had changed him. And I am mad.

When we would actually get to be in each other’s company and go somewhere, he always looked so proud when he introduced me as his daughter. I should have been a better daughter.

I am mad because he had to suffer such extreme pain those last few years.

I remember the last time I saw my father the way I had always known him to be — the guy smoking a cigarette, smiling and giving a small wave to those going in and coming out of the Weirton Senior Citizens Center. Just being his humorous self. He had a way about him that always made me laugh. In a way, that day was a final goodbye as to what he had always been.

I remember hugging him after he walked me to my car. As we chatted about my needing a new vehicle, he said something to me which took me by surprise. He told me was getting surgery the following week. A surgery that was supposed to make him feel better. Little did I know I would never see him look that way again.

Apparently, those operating on him weren’t aware he was supposed to leave better than he was when he arrived.

And I am beyond angry that he had that procedure done.

His life would now consist of being in and out of hospitals. He rarely ate, could hardly walk and would never drive a vehicle or visit the senior center again.

His daily life now consisted of only extreme physical pain. Physical pain on top of the emotional pain which he for so long tried to bury.

The remainder of my visits with him would consist of heartbreak — heartbreak that I could never let him see. Maybe because I, too, have to appear strong and as if nothing bothers me.

I didn’t know what to say to him anymore. I didn’t know how to act. Because I didn’t want him thinking I felt sorry for him. Even though I did. I believe he spent his entire life not wanting anyone to feel that way about him. And I didn’t want him to see that in my eyes.

So my visits were few. And phone calls were for rarer occasions.

And I am mad. Mad at myself for not being the daughter I should have been.

Mad that he’s gone and there will never be any more moments …

Moments of hearing his voice call me JuJu. Or hearing him let out such a great laugh while watching “The Little Rascals” or “The Three Stooges.” Or “Gunsmoke.” Who laughs at “Gunsmoke?” But for some reason he did.

Moments of him giving me advice about money and cars.

I do not know a whole lot about my father. But I do know that he loved to fish. I hate fishing. And he enjoyed going to the lake. I hate lakes. But what I wouldn’t give to go fishing on a lake with him right now.

He loved oldies music. And his dog. Two of my very favorite things.

He liked playing cards. I can remember when my brother and I were little and we would go to his house and play poker for pennies with him and his friends. He taught an eight-year-old how to play Seven Card Stud and Spit in the Ocean. I absolutely love those memories.

I loved him. And I feel very fortunate that that was the last thing I ever got to say to my dad. He died the day after his birthday. Again, I like to think he heard me and that he knew he was loved in this life.

I prayed — more than anything I’ve ever prayed, that he was finally in a place where there is never any more hurting.

That he is in a heaven which encompasses a peace like he never knew on earth.

And I still pray, to this day, that there is a paradise that consists of two fishing poles and a lake for when we get to see each other again.

Happy Father’s Day, daddy.

(Stenger is community editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times.)