The Lining Is Silver
003: Welcome To The Family
Those words chilled me to the bone—“Darling, your father called me last night, he would like to speak to you, now don’t get upset, but I told him that would be alright. It has been a few years.”
A few years? It’s been almost a decade since the man who donated sperm to her egg nearly took my life. Sending me through years of therapy. I put on the smile I’ve perfected for the adults in my life and simply nodded; whatever Momma said, went.
“When will we be meeting up?”
Tonight. I knew that would be the answer coming out of her mouth; it was why she looked nicer than she has in a long time. Why she’s home now instead of at work, and why she’s actually making a dish she hasn’t cooked for me since she up and left my father, meatloaf—his favorite.
“Tonight, I hope that’s okay. I told him you’d be uncomfortable, but I did call your doctor and she said this might be a good step for you.”
Everything came back to me getting better, getting over the trauma—I’m twelve, almost thirteen. I’m not a toddler anymore. I understand that what happened was wrong, it wasn’t okay and that my father shouldn’t have done it. I understand that it’s okay to feel resentment towards him, hatred, and every other vile emotion out there—within reason, as I’m always reminded by my therapist.
“Sure, I’ll give it a go, but I’m not going to make any promises.”
She didn’t turn around to face me but the slight dip in her shoulders let me know that answer disappointed her.
I fiddled with my fork, tapping it along the sticky table-top as I stared out the window of the diner. I hated waiting—especially alone. The old bitty and her husband at the table in front of me ordered the special—meatloaf—the scent of their plates as the waitress walked by induced that memory.
I did give it a go.
I remained seated at the table, finished up homework while Mom finalized the touches to a meal I had never tried till tonight. I didn’t answer the door, when the knock came and she gave me the look, I merely scoffed and turned my attention back to my math worksheet.
I recall seeing his face, one that filled in the small glimpses here and there in the mirror or other reflective surface I couldn’t quite place, like the slope of my nose, my earlobes, and my high cheekbones. The one thing I noticed, the one thing I knew but no one would out right tell me—I had his eyes; the same shape and more specifically, that same shade of green.
A few years? It’s been almost a decade since the man who donated sperm to her egg nearly took my life. Sending me through years of therapy. I put on the smile I’ve perfected for the adults in my life and simply nodded; whatever Momma said, went.
“When will we be meeting up?”
Tonight. I knew that would be the answer coming out of her mouth; it was why she looked nicer than she has in a long time. Why she’s home now instead of at work, and why she’s actually making a dish she hasn’t cooked for me since she up and left my father, meatloaf—his favorite.
“Tonight, I hope that’s okay. I told him you’d be uncomfortable, but I did call your doctor and she said this might be a good step for you.”
Everything came back to me getting better, getting over the trauma—I’m twelve, almost thirteen. I’m not a toddler anymore. I understand that what happened was wrong, it wasn’t okay and that my father shouldn’t have done it. I understand that it’s okay to feel resentment towards him, hatred, and every other vile emotion out there—within reason, as I’m always reminded by my therapist.
“Sure, I’ll give it a go, but I’m not going to make any promises.”
She didn’t turn around to face me but the slight dip in her shoulders let me know that answer disappointed her.
I fiddled with my fork, tapping it along the sticky table-top as I stared out the window of the diner. I hated waiting—especially alone. The old bitty and her husband at the table in front of me ordered the special—meatloaf—the scent of their plates as the waitress walked by induced that memory.
I did give it a go.
I remained seated at the table, finished up homework while Mom finalized the touches to a meal I had never tried till tonight. I didn’t answer the door, when the knock came and she gave me the look, I merely scoffed and turned my attention back to my math worksheet.
I recall seeing his face, one that filled in the small glimpses here and there in the mirror or other reflective surface I couldn’t quite place, like the slope of my nose, my earlobes, and my high cheekbones. The one thing I noticed, the one thing I knew but no one would out right tell me—I had his eyes; the same shape and more specifically, that same shade of green.