My parents divorced when I was eight.
At the time it had felt like a big deal.
My father was often away on business and after the divorce he was away all the time. Which suited me fine.
I saw him maybe five or six weekends a year, where I'd visit his apartment in Soho, and spend all of Saturday and Sunday watching TV while he worked in his bedroom.
The aftermath only came a few years later when my mother announced we had to sell our big house with a pool, and move into an apartment a few towns over.
That's when I realized that we were now poor.
Meanwhile my father had remarried and bought an even bigger house with his new wife, who had two children my age.
I met the children soon after the wedding, which I hadn't been invited to. It had been held at a resort in Bermuda, and was adults only. I didn't care. I was twelve and hated my grown ups on sight. I'd decided to hate my father most of all, since I now recognized all the years of neglect and impoverishment his stinginess had led to.
He led me into the huge, eight bedroom house and pointed out the even bigger pool, plus tennis courts. The game room and screening room. I burned thinking of these step children enjoying all these things I'd been deprived of.
Then he asked me if I'd consider living with him and his new family. He told me he'd missed seeing me grow up and wanted to be closer.
Many things about his speech screamed of insincerity. He barely looked at me while he talked. I had a sense of his new wife, nearby, listening to us. When I snuck a glance at the hallway I saw her watching us, eyes narrowed. When my father asked me if I'd agree to move in she mouthed the word 'no' and shook her head.
I looked back at my father and told him I'd love to stay with him.
My mother kept reassuring me that she was happy with my decision.
It was the beginning of the end.
— Von
At the time it had felt like a big deal.
My father was often away on business and after the divorce he was away all the time. Which suited me fine.
I saw him maybe five or six weekends a year, where I'd visit his apartment in Soho, and spend all of Saturday and Sunday watching TV while he worked in his bedroom.
The aftermath only came a few years later when my mother announced we had to sell our big house with a pool, and move into an apartment a few towns over.
That's when I realized that we were now poor.
Meanwhile my father had remarried and bought an even bigger house with his new wife, who had two children my age.
I met the children soon after the wedding, which I hadn't been invited to. It had been held at a resort in Bermuda, and was adults only. I didn't care. I was twelve and hated my grown ups on sight. I'd decided to hate my father most of all, since I now recognized all the years of neglect and impoverishment his stinginess had led to.
He led me into the huge, eight bedroom house and pointed out the even bigger pool, plus tennis courts. The game room and screening room. I burned thinking of these step children enjoying all these things I'd been deprived of.
Then he asked me if I'd consider living with him and his new family. He told me he'd missed seeing me grow up and wanted to be closer.
Many things about his speech screamed of insincerity. He barely looked at me while he talked. I had a sense of his new wife, nearby, listening to us. When I snuck a glance at the hallway I saw her watching us, eyes narrowed. When my father asked me if I'd agree to move in she mouthed the word 'no' and shook her head.
I looked back at my father and told him I'd love to stay with him.
My mother kept reassuring me that she was happy with my decision.
It was the beginning of the end.
— Von
Poor kid. Your writing really developed this character and elicited sympathy from the reader.
ReplyDeleteWow! What an interesting, semi-vengeful decision on the part of a 12-year-old! Interesting story that warrants a follow-up! I find it refreshing that no names are given; it would distract from the ELEMENTAL-ness of this plot. --- Macoff
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