A Short Story : My Father's Story

Homer applied, got the job and was a coal miner. For weeks all he did was get up at the crack of dawn and not come home until late at night. For once, Homer’s father was proud of Homer, and showing it. Homer’s mother, Elsie Hickam, had shown she believed in Homer, but until Homer got a chance to go to the science fair, she did not show it. She stayed out of Homer and his dad’s fights, which is almost as bad as following John blindly. But, when Homer needed her most, she was there, fought John and had John help Homer. “Homer once said you loved the mine more than your own family. I stood up for you because I didnt want to believe it. Homer has gotten a lot of help from the people in this town. They’ve helped him build his rockets. They’ve watched him fly ’em. But not you. You never showed up, not even once.” Now, Homer’s brother, Jim Hickam, on the other hand had still followed their dad but he was closer to helping and believing in Homer than their dad was. Homer’s brother had told everyone about the rocket launch and told them all to come and see it without Homer’s consent or knowledge of everyone showing up. Originally, Jim wanted to embarrass Homer in front of everyone, but it backfired and worked well for Homer in the end. Although Family doesn’t show it much, they still do love you, they may disagree with your beliefs, and your dreams, but they should still help and support you, even if they do not have the money to help.

One event that defined a part of my life that involved literacy was when I had to write a

On a scorching Saturday morning in Georgia, I tossed and turned in my bed as my slumber was interrupted by my dad screaming "Family meeting!". I cringed at the thought of being deprived of my favorite blue, plush blanket. I dragged myself down the steps and into the dining room that felt like a Russian winter on my skin. As I sat down, my dad looked guilty, curling his lip and clicking his fingernails against one another. He looked at my little brother Leslie, my oldest sister Kyra and me with a sombre glance as if he were saying "I'm sorry". My dad told us that he received a promotion back in our original home in Chesapeake, Virginia. Hearing this I bit my lip, holding back my sorrow as I tried to appear thrilled for my dad's advancement in the company.

Fast forward a few years and it’s 2007—this was when the road to hell daily train began. My Mother and Dad began arguing audibly every night, rupturing everyone’s ability to sleep soundly. Accusations flew hither and thither, each more absurd then the last. It was my fault they were fighting, this I knew. My name came up hundreds of times, “if Savvy hadn’t come along neither of us would be in this damn mess.” I wanted to fix it. I wanted to control it. The only problem was, I didn’t know how I

“Dad, you cannot be serious. Tomorrow is going to be the biggest day of my entire life. Why are you trying to ruin it!” exclaimed sixteen year old Melanie Cartwright. She was referring to the teenage right to finally become a licensed driver. To her it felt like she had been waiting for this day for a hundred years. She was the last of her friends to finally turn sixteen, and the only one of her friends to fail the test the first time around. “I'm not ruining it, I just think that it would be smart of you to reschedule, you know get some extra practice” said her dad as kindly as he could. The two spoke alongside the cherry wood cabinets that spread around the room in the kitchen of their Spanish style home overlooking Lake Norman. Melanie sat on the cold, tan granite counter top with her feet dangling over the edge. She had a desperate look in her eyes that her father couldn’t resist. “Please dad? I promise I am ready, I’ll even show you! Let’s go for a drive right now and I can prove it” she begged. She knew he wasn’t being hesitant because of her driving skills, it was the incident. This was one of his biggest weaknesses. He couldn’t say no to her, he harbored a feeling of guilt every time she asked for something. Greg, her father, sat on one of the brown wooden bar stools, and put his head down with exhaustion. “Fine, but if I don’t think you're ready, you have to reschedule. I just want what’s best for you Melanie.” He lifted his head to see his

to be quiet and to get our belongings. Tonight, we would be leaving my father. This happened

I slowly walked down the stairs trying not to break the silence. When I finally reached the end of the stairs, I was filled with confusion. My dad was not there, in fact, he wasn’t anywhere. I checked everywhere around the house, even in places I knew he wouldn’t be in.

When I was young my mother and my father both had very different opinions on how you should raise a child. And since my father was the one paying the bills and bringing home the paychecks for a few years, I didn’t really get to see him much because he worked all day. So my mother was the one who raised me for the most part. At the time she would spoil me like crazy. If I asked for something the answer would always be yes, and if I didn’t get my way I would start having a fit until she finally caved in. You could’ve called me a crybaby, go ahead I would’ve said the same thing. Because I was. My father’s best friend who had two twins both the same age as me invited me, my father and my mother over to there place for an easter egg hunt easter morning. During the easter egg hunt, me and my friend both turned a corner at the same time. He saw an egg and as he was going to grab it, I saw it and tried to get it also. He got there before me and I started to have a fit right there and then. I could remember my mother rushing up to see what’s wrong. After I told her what had happened she got me to stop crying and gave me extra candy. My dad knew that by her raising me like this I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere in life without someone being there whenever something went wrong, so he told her to take the candy back and to tell me to get over it and that not everything in life will be fair. She took that the wrong way and got mad at my dad for “not being a good parent” because didn’t

My father was born on December 15, 1950, in Da Nang, a sleepy city located in Central Vietnam. His mother, my grandma, died when he was very little, so growing up, it was just him and his dad (my grandpa). Hearing my dad tell stories of him and Grandpa together brought to light just how much my grandpa meant to Dad. Every principle that Dad has taught me, he has learned from Grandpa. Sadly, that relationship was short-lived; my grandpa died when Dad was in high school. From the day his dad died to his high school graduation, Dad moved in with his uncle and his uncle’s family. Being the oldest member of his uncle’s children, Dad often had to take care of his cousins, juggling schoolwork with home responsibilities. The death of his parents so early in his life and the added responsibility of looking after his cousins meant that Dad had to grow up fast. In the time where most kids his age were exploring their surroundings and not having a care in the world, Dad was hard at work: tackling schoolwork and domestic chores at once. He tells me he had little time for sleep. After making sure all his cousins were in bed, Dad often stayed up until 3 in the morning, immersing himself in schoolwork. Then he would sleep until 6, and the day would repeat itself. Dad’s situation was not uncommon in Vietnam. Society in Vietnam expects the oldest male child in a family to carry the brunt of the workload among siblings: the one to help out the parents. They expected the child to juggle many

If anyone knows my dad, you would understand. Very stolid, straight forward kind of guy. As a child I would never have thought I could see him so hurt, mentally and physically. To this day I believe I will never see him that way again, which is what I’m hoping and praying. You grow up being told your daddy is the strongest guy in the world, that during the worst situations he is supposed to be there telling you everything is going to be fine. My dad did say it, but just because he said it, does not mean he meant it.

When I was younger my dad meant everything to me. He was my best friend, and who I ran to when I needed someone to talk to. Every saturday morning he would wake me up and we would get McDonalds for breakfast, and drive all around, looking at antique stores and garage sales. Some of the best memories of my dad came on these rainy Saturday mornings, or when he would wake me up when it first snowed, or on accident when he was putting the Christmas tree together with a power drill. Him and I were inseparable, and he would always let me help him when he was fixing up one of his motorcycles or one of the many cars he worked on. But the bond between him and his bike was more than ours apparently.

It has been a month since my parent’s divorce. I was torn. All of my world was beautiful until that one day where I would see my mom more than my dad. The problem is, I am more alike with my dad than my mom, so I like to hang out with him rather than her. We both have brilliant blue eyes and pale skin, but my hair is curly and his isn’t. That is the only difference.

“Because I said so!” He responded so quickly it was frightening. This was also the first time I ever really heard him raise his voice. I could not move now even if I wanted to because that froze me dead in place. But I then heard my salvation as my mother came out and told us dinner was done. My father didn’t say a word before going back into the house.

In my earliest childhood memory, I could barely recall any meaningful conversation with my father since he always left the house before dawn and returned after the clock had struck twelve. A renowned engineer of his time, every morning I remember seeing the door closing behind his broad back, feeling lonely yet proud of my father.

I approach the house, I see my Father’s charcoal black SUV, sitting in the driveway, prepped and ready for departure. I walk through the back door I have to