My Birthday - Original Writing

Decent Essays
Dad “Hi dad.” These were the words I uttered once a year on one very special occasion-my birthday. It was a very important tradition that me and my father upheld. He didn’t have to bless me with his presence as long as he called me that one time a year. Not Easter nor even Christmas but only my birthday. By the time I was seven I realized my father dreaded the call. His voice would ring of annoyance at my chipper tone. I could feel the loath he felt for me at pressuring him to do this. The way I felt it was an honor for me to even want to talk to him. I was not going to let my family succumb to the stereotype-being an African American child without my father. While I tried to hold on to this thinking throughout the years, I could slowly sense myself slipping. Was it really worth it to force your own dad to love you? I found out my own answer the day I turned fourteen. It had been a stressful day preparing for my close coming party. The thought of all my friends and family gathering around me to sing the classic song helped me to push though. Scanning my checklist I made a mental note to check in on my Mom; between work and going to school part-time she had a lot on her plate. I walked casually toward the door stretching my arm out the knock when I heard a muffled voice. “You know how much this means to her.” How much what means to whom? Who was my Mother talking to? Why was she whispering? Questions were dashing through my head begging to be spilled out of my mouth.
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