by Kamillya Hunter
I grew up in the suburbs. Scratch whatever image just came to mind because I promise it’s not accurate. Let me paint a clearer picture. One of rusty chain link fences surrounding patchy lawns, where stray dogs roam and chase kids down the street. Worn-out sneakers were the norm, and dingy clothes were handed down like ancestral relics. Our two-bedroom home housed a family of six, and a single bathroom was a treasure shared by all.
At school, I envied the kids whose parents were divorced. They spoke of monthly checks and the new toys that adorned their rooms. They wore pain like badges of honor, trading stories of absent fathers for glimmers of sympathy. My own dad was a distant shadow, lingering at the edge of my life, just beyond reach.
The idea began to fester, like a stubborn weed in our patchy yard. If Dad left, I could have all those things, too. The money would come rolling in, and I’d finally have a taste of the life I craved. He was always gone to work anyway, and the temptation of fresh shoes and new outfits was a siren song that lured me in.
I began to sow the seeds of discord, leaving letters from unknown women in Dad’s pockets, and making whispered late-night phone calls when I knew Mom would hear. But my efforts were fruitless, and my dreams of a better life seemed as distant as the stars.
Then, one night, my prayers were answered. The thunderous echoes of my parents’ fight shook the walls of our cramped house. Tears streamed down my siblings’ cheeks as I listened, my heart twisted with guilt and desperate longing. Dad stormed out, and just like that, he was gone.
Months crawled by, and the divorce was finalized. I waited for the money to arrive, for the life I’d always wanted to begin. But it never did. Instead, our lives unraveled, thread by thread, and the harsh reality of our poverty gnawed at me. We moved into a one-bedroom apartment. There were consecutive nights of sausage and rice. A sliver of bar soap too thin to work into a lather.
The empty space my father left grew larger each day. In his absence, my world had become a desolate landscape, and I was left to navigate the storm I had unleashed. The guilt weighed heavy on my heart. I sold my father for a dream that never materialized, and now I had to find a way to mend the frayed edges of my life.
Category: Featured, Short Story