I drape one over her shoulders. “Yeah,” I say, not at all sharing her pleasure at my presence.
“It won’t be so bad,” she whispers.
She’s wrong. It’s always bad.
She has an eight-year-old son and a four-year-old daughter, and I’m glad that they recognize me, despite me not being around often. As kids go, they’re pleased to see me. My father’s disappointment hasn’t set in yet.
With her there, I can’t really linger outside without it becoming awkward, so I follow her in. My father makes a big show of welcoming the kids—oh, how they’ve grown. He gives my cousin a big hug and her husband a big smile and a handshake.
When they’ve moved on, he turns to me. The only thing big about me being here is that I take up a lot of space. My height is another disappointment for him since he’s unsure where it’s come from. He’s barely six feet. My mother is five and a half feet tall. Apparently, there’s someone on my mother’s side who’s very tall. I got their genes, I guess.
“You could have been here sooner to help your mother in the kitchen,” he says by way of greeting.
In other words, he’s had to help my mother in the kitchen, and he doesn’t want to. I don’t answer. Yes, I totally could havecome yesterday on my day off, but I didn’t want to. Though I try not to lie often, I told him I had a hockey commitment. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask many questions concerning my hockey commitments.
“Put your bag upstairs. I really hope you brought a change of clothes.”
“I did,” I say and head upstairs to my childhood bedroom. There’s nothing reminiscent of my childhood here. Even the bed is brand new. Not big enough for me, but beds rarely are. Generally speaking, I sleep on a California king at a diagonal. It’s the only way my feet will not hang off the bed. There are other options, but I like this set up for now.
I spend the next couple hours helping my mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. She’s nothing like my father and I think she actually likes me. Once, we’d exchanged emails and when I told her everything I was doing, she said she was proud and told me how happy she was that I’d made my dreams come true.
Then my father mentioned the emails my mother and I exchanged, so I stopped. I’d stopped telling anyone anything. It didn’t matter how excited I was for something or how big an accomplishment I had, not even how excited another family member was for something I’d done—it’s never enough for my father and I get to experience listening to my father remind us all of that.
So I don’t share.
My mother is kind and sweet. Very loving. But she also doesn’t contradict my father. She doesn’t step in and tell him he’s being an asshole. She says nothing. My mother has mastered a neutral face over the years.
When I was younger, she’d come to me when my father was away or sleeping and tell me how proud she was of me. I shouldjust ignore my father. Parents always want better for their child than what they had and that’s all he wants for me.
At one point, I stopped listening to her. Mom’s indifference when Dad puts me down is just as bad as his words most of the time. Telling meafter, when he’s not there, only makes me feel worse.
I’m an only child, but neither of my parents are, so we have a large extended family who rotates years for hosting holidays. This year is my family. The furniture has been moved around to accommodate a large table that runs between the dining room and the living room.
There isn’t a separate kids’ table. They sit dispersed between us as part of the family. Not some separate entity.
On either side of the table, running parallel pushed against the wall, are buffet tables filled with the backup dishes of what’s on the table. In all honesty, I’m always impressed that a normal single-family kitchen can produce as much food at one time as my family always manages.
“When are you going to have a family and host holidays, Felton?” my cousin asks. She’s teasing, but I really wish she wouldn’t have said anything.
“My son is too busy making unsavory content online to settle down,” Dad grumbles.
“I think hockey probably takes up a lot of time,” an uncle counters. I give him a thankful smile, but my father doesn’t miss it.
“Yet, he has time to be caught with his pants down,” Dad says.
“This is hardly the time or place for this,” my aunt, his sister, chides. “Today is about family and being together.” She smiles and when I return it, I leave it small. There doesn’t need to be any ammunition added to my father’s arsenal.
“I hear Sally won an award,” Dad says and my four-year-old niece looks up from where she’s stuffing her face with plain mashed potatoes with a wide grin.
“She did,” my cousin agrees. “Most improved in dance.” She smiles.
My father goes on about this for no less than ten minutes. I’m not jealous. It’s not that. But let’s make a big deal for the four-year-old who won’t even remember about an award that will no doubt be lost because it’s simply nothing more than a participation trophy. No doubt everyone in class receivedsome kindof award.
All the while, there are little digs at me.When my son was four, he was in hockey, but they didn’t get awards.As if he expected our coaches to make one up just to appease my father. No, what he’s really saying is that I didn’t excel enough that my coach thought I deserved one.
I spent thousands of dollars on hockey and my son thanks me by nearly ending his career with his pants down.
Honestly, this isn’t the time for that.
