My family pictures show a huge change throughout the months we had taken them. No matter what the occasion was, everyone in the family needed to take pictures. Looking back on those pictures I can see that my father was and wanted to be committed in my life, even through the changes in family dynamic.

It’s a warm, summer day. The sun is glistening and the shade under the tents is cool. Red and white stripes adorn the tops of almost every tent in the background. In the middle, my dad can be seen holding me, a smile as bright as the sun on his face, almost as if I was the only thing in his world. His dark blue flannel shirt was vastly different from the white shirt and light pink skirt I had on. I was only a few months old, and everything then was happy within my family. Never wanting to let go, my father was clearly committed in my life; the way he smiled and held me in his arms proved that. The way his eyes crinkled from how big his smile was is clearly visible under his dark sunglasses; it was like he was looking at a mini version of himself, and he had never seemed more proud. He had struggled, however. At a very young age, I was a big surprise for my father and my mother.

A brown couch, on top of which was a plush and colorful blanket. To the left and right there’s a matching pillow on either side. In the middle is my father and I again and he’s got a comforting hold on my waist. The resemblance is much clearer between us now, each of us with dark chocolate eyes and deep brown hair contrasting our similar fair skin. Dark lines of tattoos can now be seen slinking up his arm, traces of lines that are soon to be filled in. Unable to tell where one shirt starts and the other one ends, our matching bright white shirts clash with the dark background of the couch. His smile seems a bit different, not as wide as before. He looks as if he’s shy or ashamed, not as proud as he was when he was holding me as a baby. Now he is clean shaven, not as much hair on his face as before. I’m seated comfortably on his lap in our home. As from the picture before, the relationship between us is strong and bright and he didn’t look like he was going anywhere.

There are presents strewn all over the living room floor, wrapping paper thrown into the mix all over the red carpet. However, the house is different from before. A new, dark couch is along the left side of the room. There are matching  teal-blue curtains against the white wall on the windows. In the middle of the room my father and I can be seen enjoying Christmas day. There are glittering princesses and dolls everywhere around us. My father looks the same with his buzz cut hair and thin-framed glasses, wearing another white shirt and black sweatpants. I’m seated across from him, in a light pink shirt and matching pink, plaid pajama pants. My dark brown hair, a spitting image of my father’s, is in a bunch of braids.  I’m cuddled into his arms again, another big smile across his face. This time seems different, being in a new house with a dark, black cat in the bottom corner that wasn’t ours. This house was my stepfather’s house, but my biological father was in it. Even as proud and happy as he had seemed in the other pictures, he had still struggled and ended up leaving. The picture does show, however, that he was still very happy and very connected and committed to our relationship as father and daughter.

Even though my father had left, the pictures of us in our few close years show a strong relationship. It also shows the vast change, as we became separated into different homes in a short amount of time. Looking back, I can still see in his face that he had faced hardships past my knowledge.