When I was younger, my family was extremely poor. I'm talking, "sit in the waiting room while mommy and daddy give plasma, so we can eat tonight," poor. I'm not trying to belittle the struggles of modern family or give you a sob story for sympathy, but I want you to understand completely what I mean when I say you never stop living with poverty. It doesn't matter if you're worth ten million dollars or ten dollars, you never forget the ache of an empty stomach and the bitter nights when the cold wind would find its way to your bed.
At the end of my senior year, my parents received their big break: dad got a promotion and it tripled his salary. Mom, after years of hard work, finally gained her tenure and job security. We became "middle class" overnight.
When my parents were finally comfortable though, they looked at one another as partners, looked at how they'd been living, and their marriage fell apart. It wasn't the money that changed them, it was that first gasp of air after a lifetime of trying to keep their heads above water.
When you live like that--where every day is a struggle--it changes you; survival was all my parents had ever known and when the risk of drowning was finally taken from their shoulders they discovered what bound them wasn't love, not anymore. It was duty.
They filed for divorce right before my graduation and despite understanding why two people--who used to love one another fiercely--could grow apart, it still filled me with uncertainty about the future.
College was my salvation. The classes were great, my course-load was easy, my job was secure, and I had the opportunity to enjoy a freedom the like I'd never known. At least, that's the way it started. But when the spring semester began, things took a turn for the worse. It was as if someone had adjusted the difficulty slider of my life and everything ramped up to eleven.
Work cut my hours, my social life evaporated, I was under constant siege by homework, tests, labs & extracurricular activities that I never seemed to have enough time for. If I found a quiet moment in my day to talk to my parents, hell, eat, I considered myself fortunate. The isolation quickly became more than I could handle.
It's funny, isn't it? As a teen you fight for freedom from your parent's rule, but as an adult--when you face the shape of the world for the first time--you yearn for that safety net.
It felt wrong to call and ask for help after all they'd been through, but when I finally worked up the courage to reach out to my dad we hadn't been talking for more than five minutes when he dropped a bombshell. He'd proposed to a woman named Jessica.
I was stunned. I guess I'd always hoped--deep in my heart--that my parents would come to their senses and that time would bring them together again, but my father's proposal made me realize the truth, finally. There would be no happy home. There would be no reconciliation. My family had been broken into two shards of glass, never to be whole again.
My mother, when I finally had the chance to call her, didn't seem to mind that dad was getting remarried, in fact she had given her blessing.
When Thanksgiving break came I was an emotional wreck. I felt lost, as if I were wandering in the desert with no stars to guide my way. My dad invited me over for holiday dinner, but I knew it was more akin to a meet and greet with my future step-mother, rather than a casual get together. I thought about telling him no, but if I were honest I really just wanted to see a friendly face again.
I pulled into the drive-way at two thirty four and was surprised to see the house looking much the same as I'd left. The familiarity of it was nice, but I knew the moment I stepped through the front door and saw someone else in that house, that feeling would be gone. It wasn't the family home I'd left anymore.
Dad came out the front carrying a big black garbage bag. Once he spotted me, in my little silver Jetta, the lines of his face widened to a huge grin.
It was time to face the music. When I opened the door and stepped out, he dropped the bag and swept me up in a huge hug.
"How the hell are you?" He laughed. I hadn't realized how much I missed seeing that big dumb smile on his face. I curled my arms around his back and held on tight.
"I'm good, dad. It's great to see you."
He pulled back and looked at me speculatively, prodding my sides. "You've lost some weight, new diet?"
I let him go and smiled wistfully. "I guess you could say that."
"Trying to keep in shape for the girls?"
I shrugged and grinned. "They've just been chasing me so much, it's really improved my cardio."
"Are you sure you're not adopted? Women never chased me when I was your age."
He picked up the bag and we walked up the drive-way, towards the trash-cans.
"I might be, that would explain why I'm better looking--"
"But it also explains why you're not as witty," he interjected. He handed the bag off to me and grunted. "You know the rules: the smart-ass does the chores."
"I have no memory of this rule. My brain no work so good, I guess I am your son after-all, huh?" I opened the lid and rolled the heavy bag inside.
Dad looked around nervously, eyeing the neighboring houses. "Keep your voice down, someone will hear."
I sucked in a deep breath and yelled, "I'm the long lost son of Susanne and Roger Everton, my name is Michael, don't let them lock me up in the attic again!"
He quickly clapped a hand over my mouth. "That's going to cost you a couple hours of work, boy."
"Worth it."
Dad smiled at me and clapped me on the back. "Come on, Jessica has been cooking all morning. She's very excited to meet you."
It was like a dagger in my heart to hear another woman's name come from his mouth, uttered in this place, my sanctuary. He must have seen my expression shift because he squeezed the top of my shoulder softly.
