The Father Of My Father

I came home one day to see both of my parents sad. As a third grader, I didn’t completely understand at the time, but my father had been laid off from the job he’d had since his teenage years. My father had started at the age of eighteen as a student worker at Southern Miss, and after years of hard work he had been promoted to the manager of shipping and receiving on campus. When the recession struck, the need to save money resulted in his position being terminated. My father was without a job. My father loved that job and when he lost it, he changed. He found a new love, alcohol. He let his love for alcohol become an addiction. He would do anything for alcohol; he even had secret stashes when my mom had removed all the prior alcohol from the house. Quickly my father became a violent drunk and began to routinely beat my mother and me. He became unstoppable; no person could get him back on track so my mother, in an attempt to keep me safe, removed him from the house. Even my mother’s best efforts weren’t always enough, as my father constantly broke into our house. One day my mother and I came home and my father was waiting in our den with a gun. We walked in, he pointed the gun at us, and then back at himself. He couldn’t decide to kill my mother, himself, or just all of us. He had more hatred in his eyes

He would come home wasted after weeks of not being home; of me wondering where my father had been all those weeks. Staying up late on school nights just wishing for him to come home and tuck me in bed, to tell me he loved me, to ask me how my day was, or just tell me that he was there to stay. As a first grader it is hard to explain to your friends why they can not come to your house to play just knowing that if he is there that he will be drunk yelling at my mom for nothing. It got to the point to where he would come home after a few days and grab a suitcase and leave to go with his new girlfriend for a few days or even weeks. Right before he would leave I would always have hope that he would tell me where he was going or take me with him. I just wanted a father. My mother always told me that he would be back and to have hope; to always trust in her and that she would always be there for me. She was always my rock when I was younger. Until one day she finally told me what a monster the man I called my dad was. He was an abuser, physically and mentally. She told me the truth about the man that I wished was in my life for so long. He never wanted me. I was the youngest out

My earliest moments of memory are of me in a bar. I never sat in that stool again after one particular night. My mom “buzz kill” came in the bar and flipped. My dad was very intoxicated, and my mom was not having it. She cursed my dad out, got in his face, and was out. Dragging me out of the bar with her I remember my dad chanting, “I’m free. I’m free”. My mom cried a lot that night. Her tears were not shed in front of me but in the shower. She would cry in that shower for a long time, and then come sleep with me. I slept with her up until the age of around 10. I would be so upset with my dad the day after he spent hours at the bar, but I always apologized to him for being mad. My mom and him had “words”, and he sobered up… kind of. There was a lot more to my dad’s alcoholism, but my mom shielded me from a majority of it. After my dad drastically changed his life, we got hella close. We bonded even more after my mom started poppin’ pills. “I’m waiting for this cough syrup to come down.” She took pain pills, sleeping pills, my grandma’s pills, my grandpa’s pills, or basically any pills she could. I didn’t understand it, I still don’t. I still think its because I wasn’t good enough for

As I jotted down the answer to my geometry homework, I felt the vibrations of the floor trembling beneath my feet from the deafening screams of my parents. I continued my work, as I go uninterrupted by the daily routine argument. One day, I didn’t hear the screaming anymore, which was one of the biggest abnormalities in this household. I slunk halfway down the stairs and stretched my neck over the banister to catch a glimpse of what had happened without getting caught. The next thing I knew my older brother was standing by my side, his curiosity piqued. My mom broke the silence by peering her head around the corner of the living room, her eyes locked onto mine. As my brother and my cover were blown, we walked gingerly to the couch and sat down. I watched my mom’s stone cold face quiver out the words, “We...are....divorcing”. My face froze as if I was in a cartoon show. I tried to

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

He was always in his room playing video games or at a friend’s house. My mom was always in her room or cleaning up the house. I would always ask to go to a friend’s house. Of course she would not let me. She would always say “ Kaylee we have to get this house cleaned and you are not going anywhere until it is.” When my grandmother finally got me a telephone I downloaded a reading app because I loved reading. My telephone became my best friend besides my friends at school. I sat up in my room just constantly reading one book after another. I was always really bashful and antisocial. After a while my mother met a guy and they really hit it off. He is now practically my step dad and I couldn’t ask for a better

One day, my siblings and I were over at our dad’s house for a short visit. My older brother Andrew was six years old, me, five years old, and my younger sister, who was two years old. No matter how often our dad was in our lives, we never had anger towards him, because those short moments that we go to see him were always a blast. The day consisted of long games of wrestling and pillow fights and laughter and the best kind of tickle-torture. We watched movies and pigged out on all sorts of unhealthy treats. Being four years old, I don’t remember anything more than pure happiness in those moments. The visit with was action-packed and everything we dreamed it to be-- until we all fell

It happened after school on June 8th, 2011, a Wednesday. There were no clouds in the sky and the sun was blazing. It was so hot that our neighbors were swimming in an inflatable pool in front of the apartment. I was inside watching them and I wanted to go swimming as well, but our neighbors didn’t like us. Our mother and father wanted us to do it, probably because they wanted to do drugs like they used to, or still do. I don’t know. I still don’t understand why they did drugs. I stopped watching because it was like torture. Minutes later the cops came in and said that we had to leave. I was struggling not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and hugged my father for unbeknownst to me, the last time ever. I don’t even remember saying anything to my mother. This doesn’t make sense to me because my father did a lot worse things to me than my mother. We were then put into a grey van and driven to our new house, which turned out to be our forever

It all started one Wednesday evening. I had noticed that my dad was home extra early from work. I could see the troubled look on his face as him and my mother went into the den and shut the door. I did not give it much thought at the time. I swept what curiosity I

My younger years I always told myself that he was sick, or stressed. I made excuses for him, for his idiotic behavior. However, that all stopped at the end of my junior year. It was around 9:30 on a thursday night, I had just gotten home from all my practices that I had that day. My mom was in her bathroom taking a shower when I was bringing my dirty clothes downstairs and saw my dad sitting on the floor in the kitchen with not just one but two beers in his hand. He reeked of Miller Lite, so strong that after seeing his pathetic self sitting on my kitchen floor, I began to turn around and walk back towards the stairs to go to my room. That’s when I heard him get up and throw the second beer can at the back of my head. I didn’t turn around, I didn’t cry, I didn’t look at him, I just went to my room. After a while I heard him go to the bathroom, I ran downstairs grabbed my car keys, and left without being noticed. I called my mom and told her what had happened, but couldn’t even finish before she started crying because she knew I wasn’t going to be coming back. I was gone for two months, honestly the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I was living out of my car, finding different friend’s houses to stay at every week, missing school just to be able to see my mom without my alcoholic dad being home. Leaving my mom to deal with him on her own was such a difficult thing to put her through and I hate him even more for putting her in the position of not only being a mom, but also playing the dad role in my

I rip my covers off my bed, throw my legs off the side, and rub my tired eyes. I start down the hallway, and find that the front door is hanging wide open. Beer bottles, and cigarette butts are sprawled out on the livingroom floor. I make my way out to the front porch, to find my mom swaying back and forth on her wooden rocking chair, staring at where my dad’s car usually is. “Where’s daddy?” I mumble. My mom slowly turns her head in my direction, and looks at me with glossy eyes. Something isn’t right. Without muttering a word, she motions for me to come sit down in her lap. I shuffle towards her, knowing what I’m about to hear isn’t going to be good. She brushes through my hair with her trembling fingers and begins to apologize. “Daddy left early this morning; I don’t know where he drove off to, but he told me to tell you that he loves you very much honey.” I began to tear up because I knew exactly what had happened. I learned what divorce was in that conversation my mother. I learned what my dad truly was: an alcoholic, and a drug addict. I learned that he chose a temporary high over his own family. Over me. I learned that I couldn’t trust my dad ever again. He left an unseen scar that will never fade

After years of being tossed around, being introduced to people I didn’t know, staying the night in houses I’d never been in, and constantly watching my dad getting into intense arguments with other people, I grew to hate staying with my dad. After he started dating my stepmother, I was around two other kids of hers to play with and a shared apartment to visit. Most of the family cats were taken away which also made me cry. I’m starting to realize why I can’t remember most of my childhood. I repress everything I’m embarrassed or ashamed of until I forget about it. Well, that got sad. Back to some happier memories! Most of these more upsetting memories occurred when I lived with my grandmother. When I was about seven, I moved to the town part of Wauseon, the house I live in now. Being in an apartment was very new to me after living in the country for most of my life. The neighbors upstairs were always changing. There would be a month of complete silence until we managed to catch them outside while taking out the trash. For a couple of my younger years, I suspected that the second apartment was haunted when I saw a silhouette in the window, when I was sure the old neighbors had moved out. After taking time to

My Father grew up with four siblings’ in Oaxaca Mexico. My father’s life when he was in High School, Marcelino Eighteen, Pedro Fifteen, Regina Fifth teen, Theodore Eleven. My father’s family comes from French Mexican ancestry. My Grandmother was Mexican, and grandfather was French both of my grandparents were taught to be Roman Catholic Church. Which was introduced to my father, and uncle’s. My father was thought to speak Spanish as his primary language, Spanish has their primary language they learned this language to my father and his siblings. My father was educated under The roman Catholic Church was the dominating religion in the town of Oaxaca during the time my father was in High school, this religion was passed on by our ancestors.

As a child, I thought my relationship with my father was like the ones in movies. My father and I have always been rather close, and I have always looked up to him. It was to the point that I, as a child, was the typical “Daddy’s Girl”.My father has always been my favorite person. He has also been my biggest influencer in my life. He has been my biggest supporter, my greatest role model, and has been the best teacher.

My dad took care of his brother as if he was his child after his mom died, when he was 12. His dad wasn’t around when he was a kid. As a result he was raised by his great grandmother and had to move around a lot, and had to changed schools. Always looking at the silver lining through the toughest things in his life. He didn 't have much family support as a child, consequently his grades weren 't very good, but he stuck with it