Friends Forever, huh?

Chapter 45 | the past comes to the present

"Why is our family different than all of those?" I ask, pointing a chubby finger at the mother and father walking through Walmart. I look around and see multitudes of families with a mother and father, but I just have a mother.

My mother's hand clenches mine tighter, her lip quivering. She doesn't answer me immediately, so I pull on her sleeve, a frown curling my lips downward, "Mommy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replies quickly, "There's nothing wrong with our little family, is there, baby?"

I shook my head, wanting the sad look to leave my mother's face, "No, mommy."

I'd been seven years old when I asked that question. I'd been seven years old when I didn't receive an answer to my question. I'd been seven years old when I memorized the pain on my mother's face when my father was mentioned.

It took years for me to coax the truth out of her and even then she hadn't been eager to share any details about the man I never got to call father.

His absence felt gray. Like a tornado had swept through the air, pulling something important away from us--something significant, but something we could live without.

My mind was a whirlwind now and I was sure the tornado had found its way to my brain. Pieces of the past, destroyed the hinges of doors I'd shut long ago. I feel like a child as the question "why didn't he want me" makes my heart throb.

Benjamin's standing in front of us now, lips parted and hands twitching toward us as if he wants to take our hands. I fold mine behind my back, taking a subtle step backward. I'm afraid of his presence. I'm afraid that he'll dismantle the strength I've worked so hard to maintain in the years without him.

The air is thick with tension, our eyes darting to survey each other, waiting for someone to utter the first word.

It turns out, speaking isn't the first sound to be made. Instead, there's a loud smack as my mother slaps Benjamin across the face.

He winces and presses a slender finger to his cheek, "I suppose I deserved that."

Yes, I internally concede, you did deserve that.

"You deserved much worse than that," My mother hisses, her words venomous. Her anger is sharp, her words ready to cut through him like a knife. Benjamin flinches and I wonder if I'm not the only one who didn't know this version of my mother existed.

Still, I'm not surprised to see her react to his return with unadulterated anger. As a naïve child, I'd spent years longing to know my father. With consistency, I'd probed to know about him, but all I received were a few brief sentences before her lip began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. I stopped asking.

In that moment, I realize that his return feels red. Red is often used to describe passion, maybe even love. To me, red has always seemed an odd color to associate with love. Red has always seemed much better associated with something being torn away, destroyed. Red is a color that epitomizes the moment your world shook and nothing seemed certain anymore.

"Why are you here?" My mother speaks again, her words cold and clipped.

Apparently Benjamin catches onto her less than friendly tone, because he frowns. "I wanted to see my daughter graduate."