When My Father Left

My parents divorced when I was about two years old. I don't remember much about the ordeal. I do remember that my sister (who is three years older) and I were still very close to my father. He called us his Little Women because we use to always want to watch the movie at his house. We would spend every other weekend with him and sometimes Holidays. I was a daddy's girl.

My sister loved horses and my father bought two of them to appease her. I loved to sing so my father would take me to karaoke bars and let me sing country music for everyone. He use to always say, "Now Summa, You would be the richest African American country singer if you could just stick to it." I tried believe me but every time I sang a Reba McEntire song, a little bit of Whitney Houston would always come out. Needless to say singing country wasn't really my forte. My father would take us to eat whatever we wanted whenever we wanted. In church, He would let us come up to the front and sit with him and all the other deacons. Ill never forget the year he brought mountain bikes to our mothers house for Christmas. My sister and I fought over the pink one until my mother made us Rock Paper Scissors for it. To my recollection, things would never and could never change.

My father remarried when I was six years old. Two years later my little brother was born. I'll be the first to say that I never liked my stepmom. My mother was Susie Homemaker and my stepmother made literally everything out of a box. When she would brush my hair she would brush my forehead and I swore it was intentional. She made us say "yes mam, no mam, yes sir and no sir." Of course now I teach my son the same. She wouldn't let us sing at the dinner table, or fall asleep in church, or put our feet on the couch. She never took us anywhere. I will never forget the night my little brother threw a McDonald toy at my head and she did absolutely nothing to reprimand him. Everything was about my little brother. At least that's how it seemed to me. My sister always turned a blind eye until my father stopped picking us up completely.

The first two years weren't all bad but I could definitely tell my father was missing weekends with us more and more. I remember screaming to my mother, "I want my dad, I want to go to my daddy's." Not knowing all the while he was choosing not to get us anymore. All of a sudden it got to be, "Well Summa, your brother has basketball practice, your brother has football." The excuses stopped when I was in the third grade. I remember vividly waiting in line to use the restroom with my class when I decided to skep everyone. My teacher got onto me and I snapped at her. I remember waking up that day. I was angry. It had been two whole entire months that I hadn't seen my father. I couldn't understand why my sister wasn't even upset. I walked to school with my friends and even they could tell something was bothering me. When I got home from school I was still so mad that I called my father. He didn't answer, and I never called again.

We started seeing and hearing from my father every blue moon. Months would go by. By the time I was about thirteen, years flew by. The strange but ironic thing was that every Holiday or birthday, we would get cards in the mail. Signed by my stepmother. She would come by and bring us gifts on Christmas but my father was never with her. As grown as I am now, I still haven't gotten up the courage to ask my dad why he ditched us once he had a son, Once my little brother started playing sports. I don't know, I guess I feel like it's too late for my "daddy" to come back to me. He should have never disappeared. Right?