Sometimes I wonder whether my craziness comes from the environment I grew up in, or it just ran in the family.
My mother wasn't the most giddiest person, unlike Karen, who was always bouncy and hyper. Dad was pretty happy, well, that's until you made a disagreement with him. He has anger problems, and it can get bad super quickly. The short amount of time that it takes me to snap my fingers would be how quick his mood can turn upside down.
It makes me question why my aunts and uncles are so different from my parents. They're jolly people, and sure, sometimes you get sick of them, but we have to see them on a monthly basis.
Since mum went out of my life, we haven't been the closest of relatives to her sisters.
I believe that mum left because Dad did something terrible. I never knew the story, I didn't know why exactly she didn't bother to say goodbye to me before taking off. It hurt as hell not knowing the true story, it hurt coming home one day and seeing the dressers and wardrobes in my parents room all open and pretty much empty.
Dad wasn't home at the time, so I was left for a couple hours and I was driving myself insane by coming up with a bunch of theories of why she left. She was happy with dad, what changed?
Sure, they had their quarrels every now and then, and I believe they made me crazy. However, they loved each other very much, and I know that because I know what it's like to love someone.
Loving someone meant they were on your mind all the time. It meant thinking about them when it isn't necessary all, like that time when Dad and I were at a cricket game a couple hours away from home and mum was spending the night with her friends. All of a sudden, Dad starts talking to me about how mum would love the landmarks in the area, and how she would love to go to the small French market nearby.
Love was when, even though countless arguments, you would both feel guilty and you'd be quick to forgive.
Love was when it felt like you had just seen the other person for the first time, every time you see them. I knew mum and dad looked at each other that way quite often; they just had this awestruck, starry eyed expression painting their features.
Two years ago today, the thirteenth of December, I remember putting up the Christmas tree mum and I bought from a nursery nearby. We had bought so many decorations and dad wasn't happy with how expensive it got, but he loved Christmas, so he quickly got over it.
Being the only child in the house, I was content with all my parent's love and affection; smothering was nice. However, back then, I didn't realise that it would soon be over and dad and I would be sobbing our eyes out like mad. I've never in my entire life seen Dad cry, never. So waking up everyday, watching as he cries into his breakfast was heartbreaking. Most the time, I waited until he left for work before I can go downstairs to grab myself food because I didn't want to see him in such a tearful, vulnerable state.
Endless evenings, mum would sit by the piano, flipping through musical pages for different Christmas carols and I would sit next to her, singing. Even though I was tone deaf, she didn't seem to mind that much. Dad would be standing nearby with his camera, capturing memories to cherish.
So as I held dad's old camera in my hands, I teared up a little. I was sat in my room while everyone was downstairs, putting up the Christmas tree.
We kept that tradition; putting up the Christmas tree twelve days before Christmas was something I've grown up with for sixteen years with mum and dad, so Karen and Casey didn't seem to mind when we asked them politely to hold off the tree until this day.
Of course, we didn't stop them decorating the house. Casey did all of that with dad's help at the beginning of December, hence why there was mistletoe hanging in the kitchen.
My door was locked, my curtains had been drawn since last night and the only light source was coming from lamp on my dresser and the tiny screen camera in my hands. There were photos on here from the last Christmas we had with mum; I don't think dad could bring himself to print these photos off the camera, not when mum left right after New Years.
The rest of the pictures from all the other Christmases were in a photo album that I had with me on my bed. Dad stashed it away in his office but I ended up finding it anyway.
I went through the pictures, knowing they are killing me to look at them, but I just couldn't tear my eyes away.
There was a picture of mum teaching me how to play Silent Night on the piano. After a lot of difficulty, I mastered it and mum would sing along with that beautiful voice of hers and dad would just keep snapping pictures.
I still remember which chords to use, I still remember each and every word. I don't want to remember it, I hate thinking about it. I hate not being able to spend Christmas the same way I used to, I hate the fact that Karen and Casey can be so happy and carefree because I knew I couldn't ever match their mood. Not now, not ever.
I put the camera down and grabbed the first hefty family album that was by my side and flipped to the first page.
My eyes landed upon a page full of photos from Christmas in 2007. I was twelve years old. A little version of myself and my cousins were sitting around the ginormous Christmas tree at my grandparent's house. There were around three dozen presents under it. I remember that, it was a brilliant memory because we wouldn't all get together every year so instead, I'd be at home, unwrapping my presents alone. Well, until two years ago, because Casey was here with me so I no longer had to do it alone.
Dad wanted to go up to my grandparent's house again this year, because he thought it would've been nice with Karen and Casey. However, they live all the way in Portsmouth, and the weather wasn't starting to look good for the next couple weeks. The last thing we want is to be stuck in the snow on Christmas Day.
Alas, we were stuck at home once again. It would've been nice to visit my grandparents, but then I'd have to tell them about my thing and shh I have to carry a stupid container of pills everywhere and why I'm supposedly stroppy all the time; I'd rather not go into that.
"Flynn?" Karen knocked on my bedroom door. "Wanna help with the Christmas cards?"
I cleared my throat and choked back more tears. "No."
"Okay." Was all she said before I heard footsteps walk away from my door and go down the staircase.
I wiped my eyes with my hand and flipped through even more pages of the vintage album. It's plush leather cover felt cold on my fingers and the plastic sheet that covered the pictures already had tear drops on it.
Quickly wiping them away, I finished looking at the photo album and picked up the other chunky album. This one was newer, and flipping over to the next page, I saw that it was the Christmases when I was fourteen and fifteen years old.
This picture was of dad and I, and he was dragging my sled across the snow. Zach was in another sled next to mine and his was being pulled by Liam. Mum must've been behind the camera at the time because she wasn't in this picture and I definitely remember her being there at the time.
Another photograph was of Boxing Day in 2008. It was of me lighting a firework, with mum in the background dressed in her pyjamas and treading barefoot on the grass looking all panicked. I let out a tiny snicker as the memory flashed in my mind. The picture was taken at the perfect moment, and I looked at it longer than all the other ones.
I flipped the page over and caught my eyes upon an envelope. It was sealed, and on the front, I saw this:
Jennifer Hopper
Flat 2.A.
31 Brooke Street,
Portswade,
Sheffield
SJ3 6PQ
My curiosity definitely peaked, because on the top left, was my dad's name and our home address. It seemed like a letter to my mother that Dad never sent. I took a photo on my phone of mum's address before ripping open the flap and taking out the letter that was inside it, as well as a £2,000 cheque to my mum. I slipped the cheque back inside the envelope and unfolded the letter, seeing Dad's handwriting.
Jennifer,
I hope you're getting along well. Please take this cheque and take care of yourself. I've been devastated about your leaving, and I'm sure I've just been tormenting poor Flynn with the poor outcome. I've been a mess, I'll admit that, and it's making me into a terrible father.
I can't stop thinking about you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't even talk to anybody at work. Memories of you, flashes of that time you shut the door in my face; they keep haunting me. Slowly, they turn into nightmares, and I wake up at random times during my sleep and wish you were with me.
I know it's not going to happen anytime soon, It was your choice to leave, I can't keep you on house arrest. I haven't told Flynn the reason for your leaving, after all, it's your story to tell, not mine. I don't want to break it to our son. He's already stressed choosing his sixth form choices, and did you know that the headmaster had told him that he's well on his way to the university of Cambridge? He's a clever boy, very independent and he just reminds me so much of you. I'm sure he's hurting, after all, he's certainly not the type of person to talk about feelings and emotions, which is why I can't ask him how he feels about all of this.
I forgive you. I love you. Please don't just read this and not write back. Please contact Flynn too, he doesn't deserve this.
Lots of love and hugs,
Pete.
However long I spent in my room, crying waterfalls of tears, was unknown to me. I just felt drained, upset and curious.
I wanted mum back for Christmas, I really did, and I wanted her to tell me about why she left.
I came to the realisation that love was a horrible bitch sometimes. It meant suffering quietly and tearing yourself apart secretly to not hurt the other person and it was something I've become accustomed to.
It's something dad has faced, because love didn't have to mean couple things. Dad loves me, and seeing him all torn up made me realise I loved him too. A couple months after mum's exit, he wouldn't show his face to me because I knew what to expect.
Puffy eyes, rugged clothing, messy hair- I couldn't bear to see that. He knew it. I knew it. We all knew it. Even the neighbours.
I've felt it too, in high school. That's a story for another time, however.
I stared at the piece of paper in front of me for the longest time, I wan't crying anymore, no, my eyes were getting dry from staring too long. I was in shock, I was rendered speechless. Had dad just forgotten to send this off? Or did he decide not to in the end?
It must've been written sometime in the summer after I turned 16, because he was talking about my sixth form choices and future plans. He was right about me not being a someone that talks about feelings. I guess things are a little different now, I used to not feel much of anything. Now, I feel everything.
Moreover, Why would dad hand over two grand like that? Firstly, That's a hell of a lot of money and secondly, if they weren't even on a basis where they could talk face to face, then surely dad wouldn't be so generous towards the one person that broke him.
The question is, who tore who up? Who is in the wrong? Is it dad? Is it mum?
What could mum have possibly done if it was her fault? She was ever so sweet and caring, and she loved dad to bits the same way he loved her. Dad was crazy about mum, so what could he have done to make her leave? What if he cheated? No, I don't think he'd ever do that. He is definitely all for monogamous relationships, but so is mum too!
My mind was spiralling with questions, and unfortunately, I couldn't shut them off. I tucked the letter back inside it's envelope and placed it back in between the pages of the album where I found it. A feeling of uneasiness and agitation ran through me as I stood up from the bed and grabbed my duffle bag from under my bed.
I began to pack a couple items of clothes, feeling content that I was doing the right thing. The last thing I did was pack my bottle of pills and my charger and my toothbrush. I unlocked the door and pulled the door open quietly; the bright light in the hallway shined in my eyes and it took me a while for my eyes to adjust, but once they did, I treaded carefully down the staircase, immediately being greeted my Casey who was decorating the handles of the staircase with purple and white tinsel.
"Fly-"
Before she could continue, I placed my index finger over my lip and motioned for her to not speak. She pursed her lips and looked up at me with confusion as she watched me shove my feet into a pair of trainers and grab my coat and gloves.
I checked if I had enough money in my wallet, only seeing a couple notes and my debit card. I had topped my card up a few weeks ago, so I was okay.
I gave Casey a hug before leaving out the door into the twilight and gently closing it shut behind me. The cold air nipped at the bare skin on my face and I shivered and stared off into the distance before walking to my car and turning on the ignition. My heart hammered in my chest as I accelerated out of the driveway and down the road.
As I made my way up to the end of the street, I saw a tall, bulky figure in the distance through the rear view mirror, my guess was that it was Dad. He was stood under the dim glow of a streetlight, which is the only reason I could see him.
I sped up to the motorway and felt myself relax as I saw a sign informing me that Sheffield was a mere 43 miles away. It shouldn't take me too long to get there, especially at 9:15 on a Sunday.
I wonder how mum would react seeing me. Would she be happy? Would she tell me why she left us? What happened on that day?
What if she isn't pleased to see me? What if there's another guy?
No, I'm sure she wouldn't do that. If anything, she would still be madly in love with Dad.
I flicked on the radio in an attempt to drown out my thoughts, but it didn't do much. They were still incessant and obnoxious at the back of my mind.
The only thing that really kept me going was the thought of mum still having real feelings for dad. I just knew it. She could never have an affair, she hates the thought of those. I only knew that from watching the Jeremy Kyle Show with her. She often like to binge watch those episodes, only to complain and go on about how unbelievable it was for him to do that to her, or her to do this, etcetera.
I knew that mum wasn't going to return home, however, it would be nice to still have the option of visiting her every now again. I didn't want her out of my life, that would just be horrific.
But what if she didn't want me in her life?
Of course she doesn't want you in her life, that's why she ran away.
I groaned and turned the volume of the music up, but it still kept drowning out in the background over the loud, hammering thoughts that shouted in my head.
She ran away from you.
She probably has a new guy in her life.
She didn't even tell you the address of her new home.
Even your own father didn't tell you the address.
I felt a tear slip down my cheek, so I wiped it away with one hand whilst I kept a steady grip on the wheel with my other.
I took a few deep breaths to allow my mind to focus on getting to mum's house in one piece.
All I had to do is drive. Just drive and get there as quickly as I could so I could get the truth.
However, part of me wanted to believe my conscience.
Maybe I should just turn back and go back home.
But maybe, just maybe, mum wasn't like that at all. I haven't seen her in two years, but I don't think anything drastic could happen in that period, like an engagement or a child.