Blue

I didn’t think he would leave me stranded again. I thought the wheel of fortune had finally turned to my favor. I was a fool not to see the writing on the wall.

When I was born, my father claimed I was not his. “She looks white,” he told my mother. She gave me her last name and decided she was on her own. Two months later, when the melanin peaked through, my dad decided to marry my mom and give me his last name.

My memories of my dad in childhood were mostly good. He was light and playful. He let me go through his CDs and listen to all the different music he listened to. He took my brother and me on bike rides and to museums. He took me to the library and let me check out as many books as I could hold. He was the warmth to my mother’s coldness.

I was still scared of him. Whenever he entered our home from work, I would scurry back into my room like a cockroach, hoping the house was clean enough for him. It never was. I could feel his rage through my bedroom walls, and I didn’t dare open the doors. I would turn off all the lights and hide under my covers, pretending to be asleep.

After my mom’s straight refusal to go to an art school close to home and my dad’s spineless effort to convince me to stay, I decided I needed to get as far away as possible. I decided Davis, California, would be my new home, eight hours away.

It wouldn’t be long before I received a phone call from my mom. I answered the call and heard her wail. I was confused. What could it be?

“Your dad is having an affair,” she managed to blurt out. I didn’t even know what to say. I only started to cry.

I can’t say I was sad about our family being broken because it felt broken from the beginning. It felt wrong and misplaced. I never felt love between my parents; I only felt resentment between them. I was just scared of the changes that would come with it.

I wouldn’t feel the changes much later. I didn’t go home much during college. I was developing a life, and I enjoyed the freedom of not being under my mother’s microscope. No one ever called to see how I was, and I didn't either. To be fair, my mom occasionally sent care packages, but there was radio silence from my dad.

I had to move back home after three years on my own. I was living with my boyfriend, and it ended badly. So badly, I picked up some habits I thought I was too smart for and got a vacation that came with grippy socks.

My dad came to pick me up. He helped me pack all my stuff, and we headed back home. The drive was mostly silent. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t heard from him since he dropped me off on my first day of college. I was happy to see him, and I didn’t understand why. Maybe I was clutching on to the memories I had of him.

When we got closer to home, I decided to break the silence.

“How are the dogs?”

He seemed irritated by the question.

“You do know I’m not around the house much, right?”

I didn’t respond; instead, I just decided to be silent again. He helped me unpack my things from his truck and load them back into my childhood bedroom. I wouldn’t hear from him for another eight years.

In those eight years, I managed to get over my alcoholism and skiing habit, secure a career in interior design, and get married. I was going to have my happily ever after.

I got pregnant with my daughter, and I finally heard from him. I guess my mom told him. They would stay in contact mostly because they were finally finalizing their divorce. It only took about eleven years.

I got a text on my phone:

“Hey, I would like to have dinner with you to catch up, anywhere you want. Let me know.”

I stared at my phone, almost frozen. I often imagined the day my dad would want to be in my life again, and there it was. I responded right away, and I hoped he didn’t feel my desperation. We set up a dinner on Friday night at a local restaurant near my home.

I was so nervous about the dinner, and it was all I thought about. I thought about all the things I could talk about with him, all the things he had missed in my life, and all the things I missed in his. I had thought about what I was going to wear, what would should that I was a serious mature professional? Not the alcoholic drug addict, he dropped back at our old family home. It would be his first time meeting my husband, a shy man who had only a few words for strangers, something my dad had been for a long time for me.

The day had come, and I made sure that both my husband and I looked perfect, not a hair out of place, not a single wrinkle on our clothes or dog hair clinging to the fabric.

It would be the first time that I saw her, the mistress, the bitch who took my dad away. I told myself I would have a positive mindset. My dad was finally going to be back in my life, the only person who I felt believed in me, the only parent who I felt truly loved me, and saw me for me.

We sat at a round table, and I took in my dad’s face and his girlfriend. My dad looked the same. Tall, thin, short, buzzed hair, and a five o’clock shadow, just a little bit older, some gray hair peaking through his hair. His girlfriend looked young and had very light skin. She was heavier set with a flowy bohemian style. It felt like she was my dad’s complete opposite, but my mom was, too.

At first, it was a bit awkward. We exchanged side hugs and had some small talk about the restaurant. But then the words began to spill out, almost like vomit. It was always easy to talk to my dad, despite the years and the abandonment. I had completely forgotten about it, or it was just extreme cognitive dissonance. My husband was mostly silent through dinner.

When the dinner was over, the awkward hugs turned to genuine embraces, and he promised he would be around more often. My mind screeched with glee, but I just smiled and said, “I can’t wait.”

When my husband and I got back into the car, I said, “Well, you were quieter than usual.”

“What was that in there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know he is your dad, but we’ve already been married for five years, and I have never met him; he has never asked about your life until now. How could you just be so forgiving?”

I didn’t say anything at first, I just cried. My husband rubbed my shoulders.

“I didn’t know wanting to be loved by my dad was a crime?”

“That’s not what I meant. I just want you to really think about it.”

I didn’t. I crashed into the restart of my relationship with my dad headfirst without a thought in my mind. The shift happened overnight, and I had my arms wide open. I was invited to every family event, every family vacation, and I went to every single one.

I noticed small things. When my daughter was born, my dad and his girlfriend did not come to visit me in the hospital, even though they were invited. They didn’t even bother to come to visit me at home. Instead, they suggest I come to their home so they can see the baby. So at two weeks postpartum, still healing from my emergency c-section, I packed the diaper bag and headed to their home forty-five minutes away.

Every Christmas or Easter, my dad and girlfriend gave her nephews elaborate gifts, but my daughter nothing. It didn’t bother me much because I didn’t want anything from them. It was just all the condescending conversations my dad’s girlfriend would have with me.

“Oh, I hate Christmas, it's just a ploy for consumerism.”

“Easter is just a bunch of plastic crap filling up the landfill.”

I would swallow the words and hypocrisy, but sometimes I would hope my dad would see the othering.

It would only get worse. Her family would openly ask me about my mom, saying I should FaceTime her during dinner, very aware of the pain the affair had caused. Even I knew they were trying to get a reaction out of me, something I never gave.

On family vacations, they would book tickets with my daughter and me far away from the rest of the family. They would do activities without us, just my daughter and me alone in a hotel room. I was still hoping for the day my dad would say something. He never did.

I sat there wondering what the point was. Why wouldn’t my dad leave me alone? He had abandoned me before, so why was he so insistent on my being in his life to treat me like I was some nuisance?

I decided to stop making an effort. I realized that 100% of the time, it was me reaching out to him; even the invitations to family events and vacations felt like they were only because I happened to be around.

I never got another text or call from him. My phone was drier than the Sahara Desert. I even heard through the grapevine that my dad was telling people that I cut him off and I wanted nothing to do with him.

My dream would never come true. The love that I seek was faker than the American Dream. But I stare into my daughter’s face and realize that this is my new beginning.