Ever since my parents divorced, my dad has been more of a ghost than a father. Always fishing. Always “too busy.” Birthdays, school events, even a simple call—none of it seemed to matter to him.

But my 18th birthday? That had to be different. I texted him, invited him to the party, and hoped. He replied, “I’ll try to be there.”

He didn’t come.

Instead, he was out on the lake with his buddies. I called, heart sinking. “Hey, kiddo… catch you later?” That’s all he said. I hung up, crushed, and hid in my room. My mom comforted me, whispering, “One day, he’ll realize what he’s missing.” But it’d be too late.

A week later, he handed me a fishing rod—his idea of a gift. “We can go together!” he said. I finally saw it. He wasn’t trying to be my dad. He was trying to make me his fishing buddy.

“I’ve got plans with Mom,” I told him, and left. That day, I stopped chasing his love.

Now, I pour my heart into music, my mom, my friends—people who actually care. My dad? He taught me what not to be.

I donated the rod. I don’t fish.