The Father Of My Father

Decent Essays

My mom sometimes refers to me as her husband. I became her husband after she and my dad separated at the age of eight; I remember my mom crying in my lap. As a child, it’s difficult to picture your parent crying in your lap instead of the other way around. We were in her bedroom, laundry piled in the corner - a first in my usually neat and orderly household. The door was locked to keep my younger siblings, two sisters and one brother, from coming in because you have to put on a good face. This was my introduction to being my mom’s husband. My parents divorced, and my dad moved into a tiny apartment complex with roaches in the closet and thick, black slugs on the sidewalk when it rained. Funnily enough, he lived across from my maternal grandmother, and sometimes you could smell the cigarette smoke drift from her patio to his. When I couldn’t avoid it, I would go to his house to spend the night. When I spent the night, my dad was transformed into a surrealistic version of himself, distorted into an unrecognizable version of reality. We would watch movies all night and have bowls of vanilla icecream before dinner; even then it was obvious he was trying to atone for something. I would hide away at my best friend’s house, living at her house practically every weekend. During this time, my mom started going out with her high school sweetheart, Justin. At first, I was so relieved not to be the husband, to have someone else deal with the harder parts of my mom. Plus, Justin was a

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