How I Met My Dad

TW: Derogatory and strong language, physical violence

I remember the day I met my dad well. My therapist likes to remind me that memories, especially ones from childhood, are like Swiss cheese. Parts of what we can recall are accurate, and our brain tries to plug up the holes however it wants. Of course, that begs the question: can you have no accurate memories and only made-up parts? I’ll let you ponder that bit of existentialism in your own time.

I wasn’t very old, maybe around eight or nine? It was summer; school had let out a few weeks earlier. I had made it my mission to spend every possible moment outside. I suppose whatever deity exists out there thought I needed to be inside that day. It was already raining when I woke up in the morning. Big buckets of hail were soaring down to Earth, and thunder drummed constantly. Our dog, a miserable little shit named Butter, hunkered down in the basement and stayed there the entire day. Looking back on it, I think Mom should’ve gone down there with him. 

It was after lunch sometime when the truck pulled into the driveway. Mom and I were sitting on the couch watching Looney Tunes when the doorbell rang. Mom turned the TV down and mumbled under her breath as she went to the door. I couldn’t understand what she said but heard what came next.

“What the hell are you doing here? You can’t be here!”

I could tell the visitor responded but couldn’t quite make out the words. I reached over to the remote and poked the volume up a few numbers. Wile E. Coyote looked like he was finally catching up to Road Runner.

Mom and her visitor, some man in a suit, walked into the living room. Mom had her arms crossed over her chest, and the man had his arm thrown across her shoulders. I’d never even seen my mom touch a man before, let alone a strange one I’d never met. My stomach burned as I stared at them.

Mom stepped away from the man and waved her hand toward me, “Micah, sweetheart, I want you to meet someone. This is Mommy’s friend, Scott. Scott just wanted to stop and say hi. He’s leaving now.” 

The man cleared his throat and sat on the couch beside me.

“Oh no, no, no. I think I want to stay a little while longer. Micah seems like a good boy who won’t mind a guest.”

The man stared at me, and I looked at my mom to gauge her reaction. I never had an adult talk about me like I wasn’t there before. Mom opened and closed her mouth several times but never said anything. The man combed his hand through his hair. His hair was firetruck red, just like mine. 

Mom turned and walked into the kitchen. The man and I started a staring contest while she was gone, but we didn’t have to wait long for her return. That was good because my eyes were getting teary, and I didn't want to lose. She just needed long enough to pour a glass of wine.

“Does he know?” She shook her head. 

The man sighed and rubbed at his face before turning back to face me.

“Micah, I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. Your mother didn’t think it was a good idea for me to be here, but sometimes Daddy knows best. Can’t always listen to Mommy’s opinions, can we?”

I didn't really know what to say about that. I had always listened to my mom, including her rule about being friendly to guests, so I told the only thing that felt true.

"I like your suit, Mr. Scott."

His eyebrows flew up into his hairline, and he nodded at my mom.

"At least he's polite." He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing to me, "You know, we could get you a suit, too. I bet you'd look like a little gentleman."

Beside him, Mom finished her wine in one swallow. The glass looked like it was vibrating in her hand. She refilled it and came back. 

The man smiled at my mom and rubbed his hand on her thigh, “See, Margie? He’s a good boy. He’s fine meeting me. It’s been too long, anyway. The boy needs to start learning his place with me.”

On the TV, Wile E. Coyote ran into a fake tunnel and went SPLAT. Next to the man, Mom started making little gurgling sounds in her throat before tears started to walk down her cheeks.

“When I was his age, I was already delivering messages. What does he do, huh?" He turned to me, "Micah, what do you do all day?” 

I was pleased to answer that I spent my days playing outside and drawing pictures. The man didn’t look happy about that. He looked at my mom and shook his head.

“Are you serious, Margie? This is how you’re parenting him? How the fuck is he supposed to make it out there? He’s growing up to be a pussy, and no son of mine is going to be a pussy.”

Mom stood from the couch and moved before me, “Don’t you dare talk like that. I’m a good mother, and you’re not taking him. I won’t have my son grow up to be a monster like you, Scott.”

The man laughed and stood up, so his face almost touched hers. He grabbed her throat with his right hand, and Mom made a choking sound. He cradled her cheek with his other hand, almost lovingly.

“Adorable that you think he has a choice, Margie. You kept my son from me this long. I have a reputation to maintain and a legacy to build. Don’t you think for a goddamn second that I can’t have you gone in the blink of an eye. People like you disappear every day. For his sake, don’t make it be today,” he let go of her throat, “I’ll be back. Nice meeting you, Micah.”

Mom coughed and grasped her neck. The man walked out the front door into the rain. The door shut, and Mom's knees hit the floor with a hard thud.