I was twelve when I learned the truth about my father. I’d always wondered about him. Ever since I could talk, I asked my mother about him. Who was he? Where was he? Did he know about me? She would spark a cigarette and puff on it a minute before responding. And then, when she finally did, her answers were always different. He died in the war. He was lost at sea. Sometimes she’d ignore me, walk into her bedroom and lock herself inside. When I was eight, for an entire year she had me convinced the mailman from Cheers, Cliff Claven, was my dad. And when I found the nerve to ask her more about him, she switched the story up, telling me my dad was a spaceman, and then weeks later a pirate. She never repeated the same story twice.
For years, I never understood why my mother made up stories about my dad. It was as if she wanted me to know there was something more to it than whatever lie she mustered up. It was why, I was sure, she left the picture and court papers in her sock drawer. She knew I’d find them. And when I did, I knew her and I could never have an honest conversation about who my father was.
I became angry. I acted out. Fights at school, drugs and all that. I hated myself. I hated her. Even though it wasn’t her fault. It was him I wanted to hurt. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what my mother thought of me. When she looked at me, did she see him?
Continue reading ➞ STEFAN, Published by “Red Fez Magazine” 2/13/18