Page 24 of Because of Dylan

“I left before I found out your mother was pregnant with you, and I didn’t keep in touch with her or anyone other than my parents. What I know, I heard from others years later.”

“Okay …”

“The day your grandfather found out your mother was pregnant, he went ballistic. He wanted to know who the father was, and your mother refused to tell him. He beat her, and when your grandma tried to intervene, he beat her too. Someone called the police, and they arrested him.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t keep him long enough. Five months later he was out and right back where he left off. But this time he didn’t beat them. This time he kicked your mother out.”

“While she was pregnant with me?” My heart tightens.

“Yes.” He looks away from me.

I lean into the table. “She had to be seven or eight months pregnant by then.”

He squeezes the back of his neck. “And remember, I had no idea any of this was happening. By then, I was away in boot camp and then deployed.”

“What did she do?”

“I heard she rotated between friends, and eventually stayed with a guy who owned a liquor store. She worked for him, and he gave her room and board in exchange. She stayed with him for a couple years after you were born, but she started drinking as much liquor as she was selling, and he kicked her out. She went back to friends’ couches with you in tow, but that only lasted a year. Until her father died. Cirrhosis, I heard.”

“At least that part is true. My grandfather is dead.” Bastard.

“When she found out he was dead, she went back home and stayed. Your grandma passed away a few years later. You were only four or five, I doubt you’d have any memories of it.”

“I don’t. I remember nothing about my grandparents or the other places I lived.” And that’s a relief.

“The house you grew up in is the same house they raised your mother.”

“Right back where it all started …” I laugh without humor. The cycle of misery goes on unending. But I can change that, can’t I?

More pictures and more stories follow. This time about him. He shows me pictures of his parents, my grandparents. Pictures of him in uniform. He was—is a good-looking man. I can see myself in him. How strange this is to recognize myself in a stranger and for that stranger to be my father.

It’s been a couple of hours, and it’s not anywhere as awkward as I expected meeting him again to be. I’m actually comfortable talking to him. Having the pictures, listening to the stories, was a great idea. It took the focus off me and gave me insight into my mother. Insight into the circumstances that shaped her, and why she blames me for ruining her life. I can’t say that she’s wrong. I ruined her life just by being born.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. It helps me understand.” Not that it will change the past. I swallow the bitter memories.

“Understand?” His eyebrows squish together.

“Yeah, understand my mother. Why she is the way she is, and why she has always blamed me for ruining her life.”

“You didn’t ruin her life. You didn’t force her to make the choices she made. You didn’t make her an alcoholic or a junkie. She made those choices on her own. Yes, she had a messed-up family and being thrown out when she was pregnant with you was a terrible thing to endure, but it’s no excuse. Plenty of people have been in the same situation and made better choices.”

Better choices. I’ve had my share of bad decisions too. All my bravado, meaningless hookups, and avoidance hasn’t helped me at all. I left my mother, the only home I have ever known, the place I grew up in, but I brought my scars and nightmares with me. My mother uses alcohol and drugs to numb her pain and regret. I use sex to feel in control. Are we that different?

I hug myself and drop my shoulders, hiding behind a curtain of hair. I can’t look at him now. I can’t face my father. Irrational as it may be I’m afraid he’ll see all my sins written on my face. Heat climbs up my neck, and my cheeks burn. I’m ashamed of my choices.

“We can’t change the past, Becca. What is done is done, but we can change the now.”

His words are a stab into my heart. A laser knife. Cutting and cauterizing at the same time.

He reaches with a tentative hand. Taps mine gently. “I want to be a part of your life from now on. I want you to call me when you need help, or just to say hello. I want to have a real father-daughter relationship with you. I can’t change the actions that made me absent from your life. But I can choose a different direction.”

I nod, still not able to face him. I squeeze my eyes shut and forbid the tears to spill. But tears are traitorous little bitches and do whatever they damn well please.

“I choose you.” He squeezes my hand. “I choose you, Becca.”

I stop hiding behind my hair and look at him, his face blurred by my tears. I blink until he comes into focus again. Like turning the little dial on a pair of binoculars until everything is clear. I look beyond the words and the gestures, and what I find is kindness. And hope. And love. It stirs something in my chest, and a little piece of my armor falls, and in this moment it’s easier to breathe.

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