Imagination

This is how things worked. There was praise when he did their bidding, and utter silence showed he was out of line. High-strung, accusatory silence met his every word.

"You're imagining things" his father would answer with a tight control in his voice.

The distance in miles and time helped him understand that where's praise there's fear. Swift punishment followed each failure. He'd been successful if kids, mortgage and a good job would be any measure of success. Praise never came, and he understood his failure. He had failed to bow to his father's orders and dared carve his own path in life.

'I'm broke.' his sister phoned him. Her request entailed his children's college funds, and he offered alternatives. He hit, head first, the familiar wall of high-strung, accusatory silence.

"I only asked a few small things of you. You're imagining things. Go see a shrink! " she wrote.

"I don't believe you! Your sister would never ask that. You're imagining things." his father rebuked his attempt to breach the wall of silence.

"Perhaps I've imagined things," he admitted after years of rebuttals. This was when the fear left. With it, gone was the need for praise. He sighed. Gone too was the fuzzy, warm feeling of what a child could mistake for love.

The high-strung, accusatory silence remained. So did the phone calls, the half truths and the rebukes, until he let his sister's calls go to voicemail.

"There's someone on the phone for you," he heard his father, then his sister's giggles.

The familiar pang of fear and shame coursed through him. For a moment, doubt crept in, the safe-haven of praise beckoned and he had the urge to let everything go.

"No more imagining things." he sighed.
Then hung up.