I was a little brat growing up. Thanks to my mother who treated me like a little princess . . . a brat princess. I remember wanting to have everything even before I knew what I really wanted. Looking back, I think my mother tried as hard as she possibly could to make up for the one thing that was most important to me but which I could not have - and will never have, as a matter of fact.

Did I tell you that I never really got to know my father? My father, according to all the people who knew him (and also from pictures of him that my mother saved for us) was a man with movie star looks and personality. Accordingly, he was intelligent, witty and talented. Did those adjectives help me know my father? No, these generic stories only made me thirst for more and left me dry-mouthed for years.

My father died in a car accident when I was barely two. I never had memories of his voice, his eyes, his mouth , his wit, his charm, his touch, his warmth, his love. I have always wondered about how he would have impacted my growing up. Would I have been a different person if he lived long enough to tell me how special I was and how precious I was to him? Are the genes he gave me enough to make me who I am today? I kept asking myself these questions during my growing years. I still do, even now that I am a grown woman.

I believe that I could have been a totally different person if he lived long enough to show me who I was and what I could become. I would give anything for one chance to sit down on his knee and look into his eyes . . . to hug him and get a hug back . . . to hear him sing a lullaby and watch me close my eyes .

Right now, there is this empty big Daddy chair in my life.