I’m fourteen. That means I don’t get to make a lot of decisions for myself. If I want to go out, I have to ask my mom. If I need money, I need to ask my mom. If I want to go somewhere, I need to ask my mom to drive me there. Moral of the story is, being as I’m still technically a child, I don’t do anything without my mom having the final say. But these past couple months have been different. I’m beginning to shape my future and decide who I want in it, on my own. I began to make my own destiny when I chose to have my father in my life. I’m getting older, and learning to make decisions for myself is becoming more and more important.
My mother met my father about 15 or 16 years ago. They were in high school. Obviously, they fell in love and conceived yours truly. Or something went seriously wrong. Whatever the case may be, out came me. My mom got pregnant at 15 and had me at 16. I know: that’s pretty young. But she kept and loved me regardless. My father has been in and out of jail his whole life. The drinking didn’t help either. Crime seemed to follow his every step like a shadow. You would think having a newborn and a woman who loved him purely and deeply would make him want to stick around. But that didn’t happen. He went back to prison, and my mom was left to figure it out on her own. But my mom handled it. She made sure I had more than I needed and gave me more love than I ever needed. Her love seemed to be a cup overflowing, and I was here to clean up the mess.
When I was one, my stepfather came into my life. He loved and took care of us both. He likes to tell her, “I loved her before I loved you,” which is kind of mean, if you think about it. For years, he made sure we had more than enough. He took up a job just to make sure we were okay. He was a teenager. He didn’t have to do any of this. But he chose to. When I was around six, he went to prison and would spend the next 3 years there. He was the only dad I’d ever had and ever known. He was in there for a couple months when my father was released from prison. He had nowhere else to go, so he came to our house. He’s giving her the same excuse he’s been giving her for 8 years, and she’s drinking it up, believing every word. I know my mom, and I know that’s not her. Love will make you crazy. That’s what it did to her. She wanted her family together so bad, she couldn’t help but forgive him. Anyway, I start to get to know him, and soon enough, I love him as much as she does. He just has that effect on people, you know? After a few months, I trust him. We bake cookies and go on trips and go to the mall and we’re a family. Then he goes back to prison. Let me tell you this: my father is one of the most intelligent people I know. But sometimes, the smartest people make the poorest choices. His life was a series of terrible, awful choices that were only about him. I hated him. A child should not have all that hate, but I did. I was so spiteful for so long. When my mom told me what happened, I was furious. She had her heart broken by him again. I needed to do something, anything. So I gathered his stuff and ruined everything. Shirts, shoes, pants, brushes, cologne, all of it. I felt as if breaking all of this stuff would compensate for my broken heart. For years, my heart seemed to ache like a bruise. Overthinking made my breath catch like I had missed a step. Alone, I would cave in, screaming until my throat was raw, my voice gone before morning.
But it was fine. I was fine.
My stepdad came home about two years after, and we were all happy. For the next 5 years, we were fine. But in 2017, I received a letter. While reading the name, my hands trembled like an earthquake, my breath catching in my chest. It was from my father. He said he would be home in March of 2018. It took me a little while to respond, but I read that thing religiously. After a little while, I told him I would like for him to be in my life. We wrote back and forth for a while and got close, despite never talking face to face. Let’s forward to about a month ago, February 23. I was waiting on my dad to come home March 1. My cousin Gabby called me and says, “You’re not gonna believe this!” Then she put my dad on the phone. I cried, and we made plans for the following weekend. We talked about everything when I got there, and I felt this immediate love for him. Love is strange like that, isn’t it? I’ve been with him every weekend since then. Now, I’m not a religious person, but I can’t help but feel this was nothing but God. He kept my father safe in the streets and loved him when they didn’t. There were so many times I could have lost him, but God kept him safe, knowing I would need him. My father and I are trying to be better people, and I’m learning to forgive him while he is learning to forgive himself. I am in no way a saint. But I am getting right with God to thank him for the chance to know my father.
My mother met my father about 15 or 16 years ago. They were in high school. Obviously, they fell in love and conceived yours truly. Or something went seriously wrong. Whatever the case may be, out came me. My mom got pregnant at 15 and had me at 16. I know: that’s pretty young. But she kept and loved me regardless. My father has been in and out of jail his whole life. The drinking didn’t help either. Crime seemed to follow his every step like a shadow. You would think having a newborn and a woman who loved him purely and deeply would make him want to stick around. But that didn’t happen. He went back to prison, and my mom was left to figure it out on her own. But my mom handled it. She made sure I had more than I needed and gave me more love than I ever needed. Her love seemed to be a cup overflowing, and I was here to clean up the mess.
When I was one, my stepfather came into my life. He loved and took care of us both. He likes to tell her, “I loved her before I loved you,” which is kind of mean, if you think about it. For years, he made sure we had more than enough. He took up a job just to make sure we were okay. He was a teenager. He didn’t have to do any of this. But he chose to. When I was around six, he went to prison and would spend the next 3 years there. He was the only dad I’d ever had and ever known. He was in there for a couple months when my father was released from prison. He had nowhere else to go, so he came to our house. He’s giving her the same excuse he’s been giving her for 8 years, and she’s drinking it up, believing every word. I know my mom, and I know that’s not her. Love will make you crazy. That’s what it did to her. She wanted her family together so bad, she couldn’t help but forgive him. Anyway, I start to get to know him, and soon enough, I love him as much as she does. He just has that effect on people, you know? After a few months, I trust him. We bake cookies and go on trips and go to the mall and we’re a family. Then he goes back to prison. Let me tell you this: my father is one of the most intelligent people I know. But sometimes, the smartest people make the poorest choices. His life was a series of terrible, awful choices that were only about him. I hated him. A child should not have all that hate, but I did. I was so spiteful for so long. When my mom told me what happened, I was furious. She had her heart broken by him again. I needed to do something, anything. So I gathered his stuff and ruined everything. Shirts, shoes, pants, brushes, cologne, all of it. I felt as if breaking all of this stuff would compensate for my broken heart. For years, my heart seemed to ache like a bruise. Overthinking made my breath catch like I had missed a step. Alone, I would cave in, screaming until my throat was raw, my voice gone before morning.
But it was fine. I was fine.
My stepdad came home about two years after, and we were all happy. For the next 5 years, we were fine. But in 2017, I received a letter. While reading the name, my hands trembled like an earthquake, my breath catching in my chest. It was from my father. He said he would be home in March of 2018. It took me a little while to respond, but I read that thing religiously. After a little while, I told him I would like for him to be in my life. We wrote back and forth for a while and got close, despite never talking face to face. Let’s forward to about a month ago, February 23. I was waiting on my dad to come home March 1. My cousin Gabby called me and says, “You’re not gonna believe this!” Then she put my dad on the phone. I cried, and we made plans for the following weekend. We talked about everything when I got there, and I felt this immediate love for him. Love is strange like that, isn’t it? I’ve been with him every weekend since then. Now, I’m not a religious person, but I can’t help but feel this was nothing but God. He kept my father safe in the streets and loved him when they didn’t. There were so many times I could have lost him, but God kept him safe, knowing I would need him. My father and I are trying to be better people, and I’m learning to forgive him while he is learning to forgive himself. I am in no way a saint. But I am getting right with God to thank him for the chance to know my father.
RSS Feed