Who was going to teach me the rules of the crying game? Who was going to show me those powers that she used on my father, so that he would sleep out on the couch? She was supposed to teach me everything. Sure, my father spent hours telling me that her leaving was not fault. That it was a problem between him and Mom. He said that they both loved me, but that they needed some time a part to straighten out their differences.
I was so mad at him for making Mom leave. I even spat back at him ‘If you truly love her, you would face your worst nightmares and go get her!’ Let me tell you something about my father. He was a big man, or at least in the eyes of a child. He was strong. Superman had nothing on him. When a child sees this giant of a man break down and cry for the first time, it changed everything. Mom made me see that he had a tender side. He was a wimp. I think that was the word she used on the phone to one of her boy friends.
Unfortunately, I was still developing these powers that Mom had. Despite the fact that my parents were getting divorced, I still had to stay with my father. I begged and pleaded to live with Mom. After all, my father was a wimp. Plus, I needed to learn what other powers girls had over boys. Out of spite, my father insisted that I stay with him. He made it so that I never saw Mom at the court house, during the divorce hearings, or even when I spoke to the judge. He made sure she was never there.
In fact, he went so far as to force me to have only one Christmas. All my other friends who went through a divorce said that they loved Christmas time. Instead of having one family Christmas, they would get to have two. Some of them would tell stories about how one parent would always feel guilty and smother them with gifts, while the other one would give a few presents but they were really expensive. How come I never got this? Why didn’t I have this power? See! This was all my father’s doing. If I would have lived with Mom, I’d know how to have two Christmases.
I hated my father.
When I started getting older and was going to high school, I hated doing homework. I hated going to class, especially biology. Do you know how disgusting it is to dissect a worm? What was even worse was when we had to cut open a pig! The stench was something fierce. It was like going into a boy’s locker room after football practice, but the odor was on steroids or something. Who cares about anatomy? Who cares about recessive genes and chromosomes? It’s not like you hear people talking about this stuff in real life.