I’ve never actually despised my father. Hated? Yes, sometimes during my bouts of anger. Blamed? Yes. Disappointed? Been there done that. And even as I cradled his head in my arms, realization dawning on me about what he did, I didn’t feel anything. My body had gone numb.
My mother has always been a shadowy figure; a thing of folklore that only existed in the untold stories. She wasn’t solid; had never been, at least to me. She didn’t bleed, she didn’t feel; she simply shimmered in the distance, somewhere in my head.
But here was something solid, bleeding in my arms. Here was something who had taken away the softness and warmth of a mother from me. Here was someone who had built me up from nothing, to stand stronger than a mountain, fiercer than a hurricane.
Here was someone who made me
