Today I found myself mad at a dead man.

Like, full-on “pacing the kitchen, muttering under my breath, sloshing my coffee around like it owed me money” mad.

And the worst part?

The man I’m mad at hasn’t been alive for years.

What does that say about me?

Probably that abandonment doesn’t magically resolve itself when the abandoner dies.

It just shifts into a new form:

ghost-shaped irritation… with a side of medical paperwork.

Because nothing quite brings up daddy issues like learning he died young of something genetic something he passed down like a party favor without the courtesy of sticking around to help carry it.

So yes.

I’m mad at a corpse.

A man who wasn’t there in life and left a mess for me in death.

But while I’m spiraling over family trees and lab results, do you know what else I’m thinking about?

The men who did show up.

The men who stepped in.

Stepped up.

Stepped forward.

Men who had absolutely no biological obligation to love me or my kids but did it anyway, fiercely and without fanfare.

The ones who taught me what consistency feels like.

The ones who parented when someone else opted out.

The ones who didn’t run when life got messy, loud, expensive, or emotional.

Those men deserve medals.

They deserve praise.

They deserve a parade with confetti cannons and a marching band.

But today, all I’ve got to give is my gratitude and a shaky cup of coffee.

Well… coffee might be stretching it.

Because somewhere between feeling abandoned, feeling furious, feeling genetic betrayal, and feeling overwhelmed by being the cycle-breaker in this family…

I decided that today’s “self-care” would involve pouring a little wine into my caffeine and stirring it with a Twizzler like a suburban exhausted witch.

Honestly?

Not terrible.

Regrettable?

Maybe.

But not terrible.

And as ridiculous as my drink was, it hit me:

This is exactly why medical screenings matter.

This is why knowing your health history matters even when it hurts.

Even when it’s unfair.

Even when it’s from someone who didn’t stay.

Because your kids deserve a mom who gets checked.

A mom who fights for her health even when it’s expensive, scary, or annoyingly inherited.

A mom who doesn’t leave them guessing.

A mom who doesn’t hand them the same wounds she carried.

And today, in my swirl of emotions and questionable beverage choices, I realized something else:

I’m not angry because he died.

I’m angry because he never lived in a way that made his death make sense.

He never showed up.

He never explained.

He never softened.

He never parented.

And yet here I am living, parenting, fighting, testing, screening, breaking cycles, raising humans, and stirring wine into my coffee to avoid screaming at a ghost.

So if you’ve got abandonment wounds, health fears, or medical mysteries passed down from people who didn’t stick around, just know this:

You’re not alone.

You’re not broken.

You’re not dramatic.

You’re human.

And you are doing better than the people who failed you.

Tomorrow I’ll probably have more grace.

Today?

Today I have wine-coffee, a Twizzler stir stick, and a fierce determination to live long enough to be the parent I never had.