I peek at Dad, not really daring to look at him fully. I don’t think he likes it—or me—that much.
Dad is tall and broad—so tall, both Mom and I have to look up at him.
We share the same cloud-colored eyes, except his are narrower, meaner, and barely shift. His light-brown hair catches the light from the thin sunbeam leaking through the clouds, nearly turning blond.
He hardly smiles or hugs me like Mom. He just looks.
Like now.
His gaze strays toward me, and I stare down at my blue-and-white sneakers Mom got me for my birthday last year.
Mom always tells me Dad is busy and doesn’t have time and that I should understand, but I think he just doesn’t like me.
“Dramatic?” Mom’s hand squeezes mine even tighter. “I’m dramatic for asking you to be a decent human being and treat your child right?”
“I give you money for whatever he needs, June. What else do you want from me?”
Mom releases my hand, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a few dollar bills, then throws them at his chest. “Fuck your money! Your son needs his father, not money.”
“Well, that’s all I have to offer him. I told you it would’ve been better to abort him; it’s not my fault you chose to keep the kid.”
Mom covers my ears with both her hands as if that will magically erase what I just heard.
Then she forces a smile on her trembling lips as she removes them, probably figuring out I can still hear—and see.
Mom crouches down so that she’s at my level and strokes my hair—it the exact shade of hers, so black, it’s almost blue—away from my face.
And she smiles, like every time she sees me, but her panda eyes make her look exhausted. When we go home, I’ll cut her the cucumber slices that Mrs. Rodriguez uses at night.
“Marcus, darling, do you mind waiting for Mommy near the car? I’ll be right there, okay? I just need to talk to your father for a bit.”
“Okay.”
“Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too, Mommy.” I glance at Dad, and he’s scrolling through his phone. “Bye, Daddy.”
“Mm.” He releases the noise, but he doesn’t look at me.
Mom glares at him, then gives me one last smile before she ushers me down the couple of stairs. That’s where we’ve been talking to Dad the whole time—in front of his house. He was waiting for us there as soon as we arrived, and he never invited us in.
I guess he doesn’t want his wife and his other children to see us. Mom said I have two brothers and a sister, but they have a different Mom, and it’s better if I don’t get to know them.
Dad said I’ll never meet them.
“You come from different worlds, and it’ll remain like that. For your sake,” he told me once while we sat in our living room.
He was helping me put together a puzzle as Mom prepared dinner. It was one of my favorite times we spent together.
Dad had a strange look in his eyes as he stared in Mom’s direction. “And your mother’s.”
Now, I round the corner and spot Mom’s car, tiny compared to the huge, shiny ones lined up on either side of it.
Instead of heading to the car, I hide by the bushes and peek at Mom and Dad.
I know I don’t have parents who live together like most people in my class. The other day, Chad called Mom a whore and a gold digger, and I pushed him to the ground and punched him so hard, he started bleeding.
And it felt good—hearing him crying and begging me to stop.
