Father of None

Does happiness lie in a silver DAYUN? Or does it lie in the sun as it sets over the horizon and you watch it from your motorcycle stalled on the side of the highway? Does happiness lie in the wind as it rustles through your hair as you ride 60 mph on an empty desert road? Does it lie in the canyon as you look down into from countless miles above?

I ask this question for the thousandth time as I drive along the deserted highway in Moscow, Idaho. I know I should stop for the night soon, but I am so close to where I started this ten-year journey that I know I will get no rest tonight, so I drive on. I hope to find peace in the solitude every day, but I never have, and I never will. Not when my children plague my dreams at night and my mind during waking hours.

I silently yell out to the wind the question I have asked from the day I left. My hands tighten their grip on the DAYUN’s handlebars. They clasp and unclasp, wishing in vain to be used for good. I am unredeemable. I have deserted my chance of ever being who I was meant to be for my children.

I don’t cry, not anymore. For the first couple of years, I'd cry, but after a while, I couldn’t cry anymore. My tears and my heart had dried up. 

I’ll never be forgiven, so I’ve never tried. Now as I pass the borderline between Idaho and Washington, and I am ever nearer to the beginning, I dare to hope.

Hope is a dangerous thing. It will rip me apart, or at least what’s left to rip. My soul died a long time ago. I haven’t tried looking up from the road for the past five years. The first five were hopeful years of waiting, watching for me to come home, but I didn’t and so I stopped watching.

I used to see their faces in the windows of passing cars or walking along the roadside as I drove past, but when I looked back they were gone.

I’ve forgotten how they look. It’s one of the worst things I’ve done as a father. The guilt riddles me daily, and when I think I remember my daughters’ eyes, I notice that they are wounded eyes, betrayed, and confused eyes, so I rubbed their eyes away and forgot.

My heart wrenches as I see my little girl crying in her bed as I tuck her in. As she cries, asking me why she never sees me anymore, and when will “Daddy” come home. I want to sob as I walk away from her bedroom and back into Washington State, where I am alone, riding on my motorcycle, in the night, toward Fairbanks, Alaska.

I have been to every state in the US in the past ten years. It’s like a depressing road trip. One where I have to learn forgetfulness.

I don’t want to drive too far into Washington, yet. I pull over into a pull out on the side of the road. I park my silver DAYUN and pull out the sleeping bag from the backseat compartment. I’m too broken to set up my one-man tent tonight. I laid down on the dirty bag and look up at the stars in the sky. They twinkle down at me in disappointment. I laugh cruelly to myself, for even the stars look down upon me in shame. I fall to sleep and dream of better days.

In the morning I have to get back on the road again, so I vaguely pull on my leather jacket over the clothes I slept in the night before.

I should eat some breakfast, but I don’t think my nervous stomach will be able to handle anything more at the moment.

I often spend days, even months in each state, yet I am so close to my past I can spare no downtime to think. Though I left for unforgivable reasons, I can still feel the pull of “home”, of family.

I continued through Pullman, Washington. For two hours the same thought looped in my head: What if none of this matters and my kids never want anything to do with me?

I can’t hope for the best, but I can’t expect the worst either, or I might spontaneously combust.

I look up as I passed the small green sign telling me I am welcome in Spokane. At least I’m welcome somewhere. I laughed at my wry joke. 

I have about 9 hours until I get to Lynden. I’ve included the downtime, bathroom breaks, and the small amount of eating.

Memories pass through my mind as I drive.

It’s my 5th birthday. I am in an oversized sweater and my brothers Danny and Johnny are sitting next to me. Johnny is barely two years old, Danny’s three.

I lean over to blow out my candles, but Tina, my sister, stops me.

“Before you make a wish you must know something, Cal. One day you will leave your family behind and grow up. Wish for the gift of sharing time with your family.”

At the time I had no idea what my 7-year-old sister meant. I do not think she was referring to my current life, yet her logic still thrums through me, and I get a whole new wave of nostalgia and regret.

I’m 13 and in middle school. My best friend and I are walking in the halls. 

“Cal, do you want to skip class with me? Your parents will never find out. I mean unless you’re a wimp and tell them. It will be so fun. We can go down to the beach or to the movies. We can even go for a drive! My parents are at work, and my Dad’s motorcycle is still in the garage. So, what do you say?”

I stood there thinking of the amount of trouble I would be in if found out, yet I reply: “Yeah, let’s do it. We should go get Richard and Mike to come with us, though.”

“That’s a great idea,” Sam agrees.

We find them outside biology. 

At Sam’s house, we all pile on Sam’s father’s motorcycle.

I take the handlebars and turn the key in the ignition. Sam is holding on to me, Richards holding Sam, and Mike is in the back. 

I pulled out, and for the next 15 minutes, we barrel down the dirt road in Sam’s neighborhood.

I remember thinking that this was the true definition of a joyride. We reached 80 and then ahead of me loomed a corner. 

The turn was sharp, too sharp. The bike went flying off into the ditch with Sam, Richard, Mike, and I.

I groaned as I lay partway under the motorbike. Mike was hollerin’ up a storm, and when I looked down at my arm, and all I saw was gushing blood. The blood was rushing out and nothing I did could stop it.

Fortunately, a passing car called an ambulance for us, and we made it out alive, though I did get one hell of a whooping.

I look down at my arm where the scar still resides.

Seven hours left for me to drive.

I remember her eyes. They were blue. My eyes are blue as well, but her’s were stunning and deep like an ocean. We first met at a dance. She was very shy, yet she asked me to dance, and I said yes.

We danced, and after years of getting to know each other, we started dating. Then after three years, I asked her to marry me. It took a lot of effort for her, for her family disliked me, and she didn’t say yes for another year. Maybe they had a good reason not to condone our marriage, yet neither of us would see that for another 30 years. We were married that winter.

On our wedding day, she wore a beautiful white floral dress my mother had sewn for her. Her black hair was in curls, and a flower crown adorned her head.

She is gone from my life now. I do not love her, yet I love the memory of her and all we were when we were younger and naive.

Five hours left until I make it to the border.

I cried as I held my baby son in my hands. He was barely bigger than a doll. I was a father, and the thought exhilarated me, made me want to live if only just to raise this precious creature birthed from our own bodies.

We took him home a couple of days after his birth. We named him Daniel after my brother. All of my 10 brothers and sisters came to visit us, and even her family came up to see their first baby grandchild and nephew.

I blink back tears as I reminisce on the good days. 

My first daughter, Emily, was born two years later. The feeling of pride and love was stronger than I’d ever felt before. She had her mother’s eyes. As I held her precious body in my hands, I felt like I could crumble to pieces and float away on the breeze, for I loved my two children more than anything in the world.

I watched as they grew up, learned how to talk, to walk, to sing, played pretend with their dollies, and sang each other to sleep at night. Then came my third daughter, Rachel. She was a complete angel sent down to earth. 

We moved to Fairbanks, AK. We had two more beautiful girls, Catherine and Rebecca. I started to see, mixed in with the love and admiration toward my family, sadness, and anger.

I became severely depressed.

There are only three hours left before I reach Canada, and I watch my past in front of me as if for the first time.

One unfortunate day I came home tired and exhausted from my day at work. I expected dinner to be done when I came home, but when I walked in the door I could tell that nothing was waiting on the dining room table.

I asked my wife where dinner was, and, flustered, she replied that she hadn’t made any yet. I grew so angry that I hit the trash can, the nearest non-sentient object. The trash can flew across the room, and my, now five since my son Benjamin came along, children jump from the living room where they were watching a movie.

Around this time abusing my family became a habit. I resented myself for it and for good reason. I fell harder into depression.

There is one hour left until I reach the Canadian border. Without even meaning to I speed up.

I grimace as I remember a couple of years back. I felt okay that day, so I wore a bright tomato red shirt. I came downstairs and Rebecca’s little sweet voice rang out as she said: “Daddy, why are you wearing that shirt? You look ugly in it.”

I looked at her in subtle disbelief then briskly walked upstairs. I shamefully cried for two hours.

A couple of months later I came home to my wife cooking chicken soup. I was already upset and wanted to eat, so I put on a pot of spaghetti to cook. 

“What are you doing?” she asked after I added the noodles into the boiling water, “I’m already making dinner.”

Uncontrolled in my temper, I grabbed the pot and threatened to throw it on her. I smirked cruelly, for if I hadn’t I might of actually let it fly.

She had been chopping vegetables up, and her first instinct was to scream and point the knife at me.

My daughter, Emily, ran into the kitchen concerned for her mother. She stopped as she saw me poised to throw a boiling pot on her mother, and her mother with a knife pointed at her father’s chest. I could feel the resentment, betrayal, and disappointment radiating off of her little body towards us. I silently gulped than stomped outside with the pot. My wife cringed out of my way as I passed. 

“Cal, what are you doing?” she cried as I flung the pot of spaghetti onto the gravel under our carport.

I stomped to our room, and I could hear her crying from the kitchen as she finished dinner.

I stop at the border between Canada and Washington, and as I give them my passport they wave me on through.

I keep driving, since it is only 7pm, replaying my major life events and mistakes on repeat inside my head.

I was having a really tough day, and I decided to stop at the bar. I figured I might as well drink my problems away if that was even possible. My problems were too big to be washed away by a fermented pint or two of ethanol.

I drank and drank and drank. I knew I wouldn't be able to drive home now.

A woman around my age sat down next to me.

“Hey, what’s your name?” I ask her, slightly drunkenly.

“Titanium.”

I almost spit up all the alcohol I just drank.

“Titanium? What kind of name is that?” I ask incredulously.

“I chose my name, Titanium, because Titanium is the strongest metal of all, no matter what challenges it. I’ve been through hell and back again and I’m still standing strong, so it seems fitting.”

“Well, I like it.”

We talked for most of the night and hit it off.

For the next several months we were friends. One day I brought up to my wife that we should get a divorce. She reluctantly agreed. I told her about Titanium or Ti for short, and she got to know her.

When we told our children, which were now six with the addition of Leah and one on the way, they cried and got over it.

Unexpectedly after a couple of months, I moved out.

I stumble through the next 37 hours of driving through Canada without sleep, while more memories float in the abyss that is my sleep-deprived, heartbroken mind. 

My two oldest, Daniel and Emily, came over to spend the night at Ti and my house. The next morning my soon to be ex-wife called telling me to bring back her children and to meet her in a public place.

I, panicking, for I didn’t want to lose my children, called my brother James, and asked him and his wife to drive us over to the Safeway.

We pulled up, and right away I knew something was wrong.

I got out of the car and my children followed. 

I will always remember the moment the police officers handed me the restraining order banning me from seeing my children again for a long time.

I gave Daniel a quick hug to keep from crying, yet when Emily, crying herself, hugged me with all she had, I couldn’t help it, and a single tear slipped out.

“When will I see you again?” she asked looking into my eyes.

“Sometime in April, I think,” I looked away, so I wouldn’t have to see the hurt in her eyes as she realized it was only January.

Tyana and James hugged them and then pointed them in the direction of their mother’s brothers’ car. They walked away regretfully.

A small part of me feels embarrassed as I go through the border between Alaska and Canada.

I drive around until I find a motel. I pay for two nights. I make it to my room, somehow manage to undress, and then pass out.

I wake up 16 hours later. I put on my clothes, which do not smell pleasant, and I make it to a store. I buy food, clothes, and new hygiene products. I return to the hotel and clean up. I make sure to pack the formal clothes I bought that day.

I get back on the road and drive another 18 hours until I get to Fairbanks. I check-in at the hotel I booked a month ago.

I need plenty of sleep, for tomorrow on the 14th of September 2025 my daughter Emily is getting married.

In the morning I take a shower, and I dress the best that I can with my resources available. I get in the taxi I called earlier and tell them the address.

My legs shake as I watch my oldest girl, who accomplished so much in life without me around to see, walk up the aisle. 

Her dress is fitted and ends in a flared train. It is a bit yellowed with age, and the collar is a round wide neck fitted with lace. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and the bleached blonde in her hair from last time I saw her, 10 years ago, has left her hair leaving it black and gorgeous. Small curls escape her bun and curl around her face. A look of utter joy and love is on her face as she stares into her betrothed eyes.

She looks like an angel. Perfect in every way. 

I glance down in the seats at all of her siblings. How much they’ve grown. They are so beautiful, and Mason is a handsome 14-year-old.

I realize, with sadness and regret, that I’ve missed out on too much, and the hope that I could come back was just that. Hope. Nothing more. I stay a little longer, then slip away, so no one will notice me. I wait for the taxi by the curb, and when it pulls up I get inside without looking back, for that’s the proper way to say goodbye.

The tears don’t come, though they should. I guess I already knew that even though I have 8 children, I’m a father of none.