Growing up, Melissa Shultz sometimes felt like she had two fathers. One version of her dad, she told me, was playful and quick to laugh. He was a compelling storyteller who helped shape her career as a writer, and he gave great bear hugs. He often bought her small gifts: a pink "princess" phone when she was a teen, toys for her sons when she became a mom.
On the surface, my own childhood certainly looked idyllic. My dad worked, and my mom stayed home. I did well in school. I was involved. If I expressed interest in an activity, my mom signed me up. She schlepped me around town, to games and competitions, to art classes and orchestra practices. I stood out academically; my report cards always read "a pleasure to have in class." I was a rule follower by nature, seemingly clinging to the order and structure that school offered me.
Growing up, I was teased a lot by my sister and mother; they would point out how I looked different from them and distort their faces to look like mine to mock me. One running joke is that I was the "Asian milkman's" daughter because I have a partial epicanthic fold, and they didn't. Turns out, I actually AM my father's child, and the reason that I looked different from my sister is because she wasn't!
