No, he couldn’t be bothered to give me his, to include me. Not that it really mattered until now. Before my mother’s mentalhealth got worse, it never dawned on me that I didn’t have a connection to my father. All my friends had theirs, and some of those relationships weren’t ones to envy. And Mom made sure I didn’t want for a thing, made sure his absences were unnoticeable and unfelt. She did it all.
Every milestone, every scrape and fall, school crushes and wins, she was the one who held it all together. But then, she couldn’t, and we started spending more time in a mental health facility.
That’s where I met Sam. We were young, barely at the age of puberty, and vulnerable beyond what we could comprehend at that time. I’d had more experience in this department than her, so when I saw her in that waiting room, tears pouring down her face, scared out of her mind, I comforted her. I kept her close, protected her, helped to explain things that her dick of a stepfather never bothered to.
And then in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Never to be seen or heard from again. I’d hoped I would; every time I checked my mom in, I secretly scanned the faces in the waiting room, wanting for one of them to be hers.
She’d left and never came back. Leaving me to wonder if her life turned out better than it had been. I was alone, but at least I had hockey and my boys. They became my family. Mom eventually got better, and things slowly returned to normal. It was great, but then something snapped, and we were right back where we started. But this time, my mother seemed to be doing much worse, and all the responsibilities fell on me. Administering her meds, making meals.
One day, while I was looking through her files for banking information, I stumbled across more than I bargained for. Documents, receipts, all evidence that showed our lives had beenfunded in secret, years of hush money disguised as support. As long as it never got out that I was his son, we would be set for life. That day, my world changed. I learned the truth, and every day since then, I regret ever dreaming he would accept me.
The door clicks open behind me, and my back stiffens, my fingers curling around the medical bill. His footfalls hit the carpet, slow and heavy, like he owns every inch of the air I breathe. My father comes into view—tall, his broad shoulders hiked around his ears, his light brown eyes almost a mirror to my own. They bore into me, anger etched in them. It’s the only thing we have in common.
He slides the chair out and drops into it. No words. No verbal acknowledgment. Just that glare, brows cocked like my presence only annoys him.
Typical.
The clock ticks louder now, or maybe it’s the blood pounding against my eardrums. I clear my throat, swallowing the lump that’s formed there.
“What do you want?” is all he says.No, hello, it’s good to see you, son.
“I’ve been waiting over ten minutes.” I make fists against my thighs, trying to keep my nerves calm.
Papers shuffle across the desk, the scraping sound ringing louder than it is. “And your point?”
My jaw clenches. “You demand that no one waste your time. You can at the very least do the same.”
I expect him to offer a rebuttal, but he doesn’t.
I lean forward, tossing the crumpled-up piece of paper in front of him. And as always, he sits there uninterested.
“That’s a letter from the facility. The bill is past due. And my deposit wasn’t in the account this morning.”
Silence answers back, and it’s heavy enough to crush a man. The back of my neck burns, shame and rage racing through me. I grip the chair arms to still my temper.
“You know I can’t pay without your help.” The words barely make it out. I hate relying on him.
He hums, low and indifferent. “You mean without you begging.”
“Begging?” I sit up, my nostrils flared. “Last I checked, you don’t want your precious family to find out about your twenty-two-year-old secret.”
“Watch yourself, Everest. You and your mother would be out on your asses without me.” He takes his eyes off me, but his voice still rings in my ears.
I watch as he snatches open the drawer and pulls out a black leather billfold. It’s the same every month. He claims to never want to see me and seems to be burdened by the fact I am a constant reminder for him. This could all be avoided, this back-and-forth, us having to speak any more than either of us wants. All it would take is him assuring that the deposit clears, and the funds are sent to the institute on time. Instead, he makes it so that I have to come to him.
He opens his suit jacket, removing a fancy pen, black with gold at the center. Twisting it open, he lowers the tip onto the blank check, scribbling away. All that’s left is this—a quiet, ugly transaction.
I stare at the picture on his desk. They look so happy, father, mother, and son. Resentment builds, and I force myself to push it away. My father rips the check from the booklet, the sound traveling between us.
As he slides it toward me, the paper gliding over the polished wood with a soft whisper, I snatch it up.
I don’t say thank you… never do.
“And the monthly payment?” is what I say instead. I rush to my feet, the chair scraping the carpet in the process.
He stares at me for a moment in that deliberate way that he does—smug and condescending. My stomach turns, the rage lodging under my ribs, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’ll handle it,” my father finally responds, twisting his pen closed, returning it to his pocket while sitting back in his seat.
