I Have Only Myself to Give, Nothing More

The car ride back home is an uncomfortable one, and while I am grateful to my father for bringing me to the hospital, I am not about to let my guard down.

“You’re so weak,” he says gruffly once we’re inside the house. “A real boy would’ve been able to stand that.”

And I just snap.

“Don’t you talk to me about real!” I scream. “’Cuz I am trying. I'm trying so damn hard and if I’m a fake, it’s because I inherited it from you!”

He gapes at me in shock and that only fuels my fire.

“Yeah, you! You’re such a phony! All you ever do is go out and get drunk. Get drunk and come back home to beat up on your only son because you can’t stand yourself!” I shout, but I am still very careful to stay on the other side of the room. “Take Sundays, for instance. You’re gone all day—out at some sleazy, little joint getting drunk, drunk, drunk!”

“You have no idea what I do on Sundays,” Dad hisses and I take an involuntary step back.

“I bet I can guess,” I spit back, trying to put on my brave-little-boy mask. “You drunkard.”

A flash of dismay flashes across his face, quickly to be replaced with rage. “No,” he growls. “And tomorrow I’m taking you with me.”

Dad is deathly quiet during the drive the next morning.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask in a small voice.

“Quiet!” Dad barks, eyes fixed on the road before suddenly pulling into a small parking lot.

I barely have time to notice the illuminated sign that reads “God is always watching, but we also have security cameras” before Dad opens the car door and pulls me along into a musty corridor.

“Where—?” I begin but Dad cuts me off with a loud: “Shh!”

Before I know it, we’re both crammed into a small wooden box and there’s a rickety coming asking, “What are your confessions, my son?”

I blink in surprise, trying to look around myself in the dark and all I can see is my father with his eyes closed and his lips barely moving.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he whispers. “Ever since my wife died, I haven’t … I just can’t seem to kick the habit, and it kills me to know that I can’t be a good father to my son.”

“You have a son?” the voice asks and my father nods.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “And I … I beat him. I don’t mean to! It just sort of happens. I get drunk and then I just get so mad and I know that it’s no excuse but … I love him and I want the best for him but I’m a devil and I can’t stop myself from spinning out of control.”

The voice lets out a heavy sigh. “Stay true to God and he will show the way. Your son will forgive you in time,” it says and Dad pushes me out of the confessional, following close behind me.

“You love me?” I ask in shock as we drive back home, but Dad doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod, just stares sternly out the windshield. “Why did you never tell me?” I ask, trying hard not to cry.

“I loved your mother,” Dad says quietly, not even glancing once in my direction. “And she died.”

“And you don’t want the same thing to happen to me?” I ask, biting my lip when Dad doesn’t answer. “I love you, Dad, and I wish that you could tell me that you loved me too.”