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My fingers dug into the side of my phone. She always did this. I’d ask her about her drinking, and in return, she’d bring him up. Even though I’m sure it brought her just as much pain to talk about him. “No, and I don’t plan to.” “He’s your father.” “Tell that to his real family.” She huffed into the phone. “Suit yourself.” Neither of us said anything for a minute, and I tried to think of a way to end this on a better note. Nothing came to mind. “I voted for your band last night,” my mom said. “You did?” It was a small gesture, and yet, for a mother who thought anything more than changing the channel was a chore, it was huge. Maybe it was her own way of saying she supported me. “Thanks, Mom.” After we hung up, I found my father’s contact info in my phone. I probably should tell him
- Writer
