The Absence of Memories

How is it possible to grieve someone you never knew—or at least someone you don’t remember? Grief is a unique journey for everyone, and typically, we grieve the memories and moments we shared with someone. We remember the fun times, the stories that start with, “There was this one time…,” but what happens when there are no memories or shared moments to cling to?

In my case, when I think about the loss of my biological father—a man I knew but can’t remember—I grieve the absence of memories. I grieve what could have been. That grief didn’t appear immediately, though. I’m sure I felt confused and sad as a toddler, but my grief truly revealed itself when I became a teenager, and his absence became a significant part of my life.

Growing Up Without Memories

My dad Martin died when I was two years old, and my mom remarried when I was three. Jared was the only dad I remembered. Shortly after, we moved from Texas, where I was born, to California. Each summer, we would return to Texas, where my mom’s family lived. Every year, I visited my birth father’s family during those trips, but I was always dropped off alone. My siblings never came with me, and my mom and dad didn’t stay. But as a child, I never questioned it. I never asked who these people were or why I was the only one spending time with them.

At some point, I learned that my siblings were my half-siblings. I don’t remember exactly when or how it came up—maybe a friend mentioned it, or maybe it just became clear over time. Either way, I always felt like we were just siblings, and it didn’t matter that we didn’t share the same father. That is, until it did.

Teenage Years: When the Loss Became Real

When I was in seventh grade, we had to take photos for our student ID cards. I remember looking at mine and thinking that I didn’t see either of my parents—my mom or my dad Jared—in my face. At that point, I knew Jared wasn’t my biological dad, so I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it struck me in a way I hadn’t felt before. I didn’t know anyone else who didn’t know their birth father because he had died. I talked to a few older friends about it, but no one really understood what I was feeling.

A few years later, when I was finally old enough to get my driver’s license, I encountered another unexpected hurdle. My dad Jared had been teaching me to drive, and I was excited to hit the road. But when it came time to choose the last name for my license, I realized I had no choice. Throughout elementary school and junior high, I had used my family’s last name—Budge. But when I enrolled in high school, I had to provide my birth certificate and immunization records. One had the last name Gallardo, and the other had Budge, so I hyphenated them, becoming “Budge-Gallardo.”

However, when it came to an official document like my driver’s license, the state required my legal last name. Since I had never been adopted by my dad Jared, my only legal documents—my birth certificate and social security card—listed my name as “Gallardo.” It was a small card, but it left me feeling disconnected. It made me look at things differently—like an outsider. And though I never expressed it at the time, I started feeling like my dad Jared treated me differently, too, like he expected more from me than from my younger siblings. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was because I wasn’t “his.”

We continued visiting Texas each summer, and by then, I was old enough to understand more of the conversations going on around me. I also began building stronger relationships with my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. But the more I tried to find my place in these different families, the more lost I felt. I didn’t truly belong anywhere, not with my dad Jared’s family and not entirely with my birth dad’s family either. I was caught in between.

Navigating Two Families: My Relationship with My Birth Dad’s Family

It’s a strange feeling to feel connected to someone you don’t remember. But I’ve always loved visiting my birth father’s family. My grandma has this huge trunk filled with pictures, and every time I visit, we find a new one that I don’t already have. It’s fascinating to see my kids’ faces in his. My son, for example, doesn’t enjoy any sports except baseball, and it turns out that my dad loved baseball, too. I have a few pictures of him in his uniform that I like to look at.

Back when I was a teenager, I wrote letters with my tia—my aunt—and I loved getting her mail. While I don’t remember the exact content of the letters, I do remember feeling like I had someone out there who loved me. I imagined that the way she cared for me was the way my dad would have, too. I once stayed up late with her, and she told me my dad’s favorite song was “Sharing the Night Together” by Dr. Hook. It’s such a small thing, but every time I hear that song now, I think of him.

In more recent years, technology has helped me connect with even more of my birth father’s family. We have a Facebook group where I can keep up with his siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Every year, my husband and I take our kids to Texas to spend time with them. My kids have had the chance to get to know their great-grandparents, great-aunts, and great-uncles. And each time we visit, there are new stories for them to hear about the grandpa they never got to meet.

Dealing with Loss: Lessons from an Absent Father

I remember posting a funny comparison photo on Facebook once—my daughter posing in a way that reminded me of George Costanza, just like my dad Jared had done in a photo years earlier. It made me laugh, but my first dad’s brother didn’t take it that way. He commented, “You have another dad, you know.” That hit me hard. It reminded me that even though I didn’t know my birth father, his family still misses him deeply. His brother’s hurt wasn’t really directed at me—it was about the pain of losing his sibling and best friend. In that moment, I had to step back and put myself in someone else’s shoes. It taught me to empathize with others’ grief in a way I hadn’t before.

One thing that has helped me come to terms with my father’s absence is reflecting on how my life turned out. I’m a religious person, and I believe that everything happens for a reason. When I look at my family now—my husband, my kids—I realize that I wouldn’t have any of them if my first dad had lived. I don’t know if my aunts, uncles, or grandparents feel the same way, but I’ve come to accept that his loss led me to where I am today. I know my first dad wouldn’t want to change that either.

My aunt once told me a story about my parents before I was born. My dad had asked my grandpa if he could marry my mom when they were still so young. My grandpa asked why they were in such a hurry, and my dad said he didn’t know, but he felt like they had to be together. Two years later, I was born. Two years after that, my dad passed away. My aunt believes that I was the reason for their urgency—that they needed to be together to give me life and a family. I’ve held on to that idea, that maybe I was meant to be here for a bigger purpose.

Even though I may never fully understand why I had such a short time with my first dad, I know that the experiences I’ve had because of his absence have shaped who I am. I can empathize with those who’ve lost a parent, even one they never really knew. Those experiences have led me to lean into my grief and use it to help others. It’s one of the reasons I’ve helped create a nonprofit that supports children in similar situations—so they don’t have to feel alone in their grief like I did.

I know that people who haven’t experienced loss like mine may not fully understand. Grief isn’t something you just get over. I’ve heard people say I shouldn’t let death define me or my life’s purpose, but it’s not something I can simply move past. Every day, I think about my first dad, my second dad, and others I’ve lost. That might not make sense to some, but it makes perfect sense to me.

For me, honoring my birth father’s memory, even without personal memories, is a way of acknowledging the impact he has on my life. Ignoring that, pretending I don’t think about him or wonder what could have been, would feel disrespectful. My life is directly tied to his. But instead of being tied to constant loss, it’s tied to constant love. I’ve been blessed with a large family—people who care for me, love me, and are there for my husband and children. So I’ll keep remembering him. I’ll keep sharing our story. And I’ll always be thankful to him for starting me on this journey.