Page 103 of From Rivals to I Do

“Do you miss your parents?” I ask.

She holds on for a while and then turns her head to mine, freeing my hand from its grip on her hair. “First of all,” she starts with a sly smirk, “I’ve never known my father, and I don’t know if my mother is worth missing.”

Our discussion meanders longer, and she goes ahead to tell me more about her mother, and the lifelong squabbles they both had been having, and how she had to keep up staying with her the whole while.

“What about your father? You say you’ve never known him?” I inquire gently, the question laced with curiosity as I regard Amber.

She takes a deep breath, her eyes focused on a distant point on the roof as if she’s recounting a story from long ago. “I’ve never met my father,” she begins, her voice steady. “In fact, I don’t even know his name. My mom, Lisa, never really talked about him.”

The weight of the unspoken mystery hangs in the air as Amber continues. “You see, my mom had a brief relationship with a man. It was one of those whirlwind romances, the kind that’s passionate but short-lived.” She offers a small, almost wistful smile as she recalls her mother’s story. “It was during a trip to Europe, I believe. From what I found out, they met, sparks flew, and before they knew it, they were caught up in something intense.”

I listen intently, caught in the narrative she’s spinning. Her words are like a tapestry, slowly weaving together the story of her existence. “She got pregnant with me during that time. And when it was over, when they had to part ways, she found herself alone, carrying a piece of that encounter with her. I still don’t know if she ever told him she was carrying me. I’m not sure what to believe. What I know is that I’ve never actually known him before.”

Amber’s gaze returns to me. “Mom returned to the States with the secret of her brief romance, and me growing inside her. She never tried to find him, never looked for him. Maybe she wanted to protect me from the complications of a relationship that had ended so suddenly. Or perhaps, she just couldn’t bear to open that chapter of her life again.”

A deep sigh escapes her, carrying the emotion of her mother’s choices. “She raised me and Jess alone. I adored her so much when I was little, but my resentment for her grew as I grew. But I’ve always wondered about my father, about who he was, what kind of person he might be.”

Amber’s words linger on the rooftop quietude. There’s a melancholic undertone to her story, a profound yearning to fill the void left by the absence of her father. The vulnerability she’s displayed in sharing this deeply personal part of her life is a testament to the bond that’s been growing between us, and I understand her very well.

“You know, I actually had a dad. I probably still do, but I never wished to have anything with him,” I blurt out.

“Why do you say so?” she asks, curiosity etched in her eyebrows.

I laugh. I don’t know why I do. “He was a comical demon. He was so hard on us, my mom and my siblings. As the first child, I suffered more from his abuse and no one could interfere. Not even my mother, unless she wanted to sleep with a swollen eye.”

“And you know what pained most?” I say, sitting up with a stirring anger. “Whenever he was done with all of this, he would kiss our foreheads and hug us. A few times when we had sustained severe injuries, he would take us to the hospital and cry with us in our pain. And when we were healed up, he would resume with a higher dose of wickedness.”

“He cheated on my mother,” I continue, “and we all knew about it. He did this several times. Sometimes even at home when we all were around. No one ever dared to question him. And when he was done, he would come out and hug my mother, telling her that he loves her, and this and that. And she never left him.”

Amber looks so shocked. Her lips have parted in a gape that I’m sure she’s not aware of. Not minding, I continue the cascade of my tale.

“He had always said I wasn’t man enough. And he would beat me up for long minutes or put me in dreadful punishments for hours, just for me to become man enough. I was ten or eleven when he made me sleep outside in the garden all night, to learn to withstand the cold and be a man!”

“Wait, what? A ten-year-old?” Amber looks petrified.

“It was worse,” I tip in. “I resolved to run off to join the Navy SEALs when I was seventeen. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving. But I left and never returned.”

“Do you still hear from them?” she asks.

“Uh, I kept in touch with my mother and siblings for some years. But lost contact with them after a while,” I say.

“And you’ve not tried reaching them?”

“It’s harder than it seems.”

“Not as much as you’d make it seem.”

“Maybe.”

There’s brief silence. Amber then raises her right hand toward my face. Her fingers slowly stroke beneath my jaw line, just by my left ear. “What’s this scar?” she asks.

I raise my hands to feel the scar. My hand brushes against hers, and she drops her hands down. My mind races back with memories of some morbid sights. “It’s from one of the times I was deployed to Afghanistan. I narrowly survived a gunshot that had swept past my skin. Thank goodness I had moved a little more, or it would have gone through my neck.”

“Wow. You’re such a brave man,” Amber mutters. I look into her eyes, as they stare at me. I don’t know when her head lays on my shoulder again. “Maybe we should get married in here and at least, die married,” she says.

We pull away from each other in some eruptive laughter. I laugh till my eyes are filled with tears. It had been a long time since I last laughed like that.

It’s a moment that leaves me both surprised and grateful. Surprised by my own vulnerability, and grateful for the companionship that Amber offers.

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