Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2272790-My-Story
by Emma
Rated: E · Short Story · Personal · #2272790
This story explains my current relationship with my biological dad.
When people look at me, they usually see just a normal girl. It's the same for anyone else. But I have problems, too. I know what pain feels like. And not just that pain that you get before your period starts or something, I mean that pain you get deep down in your stomach when someone really hurts your feelings. That pain is worse than any type of physical pain.

When my mom was just 18, I was born. My biological father was someone named Shane, who my mom later broke up with because she realized that he was not the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. My mom got married when I was four to someone named Brent, who is now my step-dad, and had two sons with him named Hudson and Cameron. Up until I was nine years old, I saw my biological dad every other weekend.

A typical day with my biological dad usually started around 5 AM, when I immediately went to the tv in our small living room because I wanted to play Grand Theft Auto before my 6 year old sister, Madison, could. When my sister joined me, we usually just snacked on Lucky Charms (usually only eating the marshmallows) and Doritos for breakfast while playing on the tv. Occasionally we argued with each other about whose turn it was, but we actually got along okay for the most part. If we got bored of playing Grand Theft Auto, sometimes I would sneak into my dad and his girlfriend's room to get my tablet. After a while I had figured out the password my dad had set for my tablet, which was easily just my first and last name. He obviously didn't think I was capable of spelling my own name.

Finally, after around noon, my dad and his girlfriend, Danielle, would awake from the dead. Danielle usually came out of the room grumbling about how noisy we were, and my dad went into the kitchen to make them both coffee. It didn't take long for them to be up until Madison and I were begging them to let us go outside or to our Nana's house. He usually gave in.

One of the only reasons I actually looked forward to spending the weekend with my dad was to go to my Nana's house. Nana is my dad's mom, and she lives right across the street from my dad along with my Uncle Dennis and Grandma. Grandma is actually my great-grandma, but for some reason they decided for us to call her Grandma and my dad's mom Nana. I loved going to my Nana's house, because she went out of her way to make me feel special. I loved when she would let me sleep in her incredibly comfortable bed with her. I loved when she would read the book, Pooh's Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin, to me. I liked to get up in the mornings and she actually was there, unlike my dad, and the smell of the biscuits and gravy she made for me. It was amazing.

Another thing I loved about going to my Nana's house was that occasionally my cousin, Neveah, would be there. She was just a few months older than me, and I loved to play with her all the time, sometimes a little too much. I remember that I used to yell at Madison when she tried to play with us, because neither of us wanted her to. It's one of my big regrets now. Neveah, Madison, and I slept on a big air mattress and watched the movie called Caroline. I never told Neveah, but it terrified me. Sometimes it still does. I mean, people with button eyes aren't exactly the best when you're nine years old.

I remember one time Nana made a birthday party for me at Splash Country. I was so excited for it - I knew that it would probably be the most fun I would ever have with my dad. I remember I was riding down a particularly high red slide, and I started coughing. When I got to the bottom, I threw up everywhere, so I had to go home when everyone else got to stay at my party and have fun. I stayed at my Nana's house that night, and the next morning when I woke up my dad had put Vanilla Wafers with vanilla pudding in a big, fancy bowl. He plopped a big scoop of it onto my plate, and I ate it all, even though I absolutely hated it. I hate vanilla pudding. But, because I knew that he tried his best to make it special for me, I didn't complain and ate it all. I even remember being disappointed in myself because the whole time while I was eating it the only thing I could think of was that my mom would have known that I hated vanilla pudding.

Near the end of third grade, there was one weekend that I didn't get to see my dad because my parents told me that he had plans. Then the next weekend I was supposed to see him and they said the same thing. And the next. This happened until eventually my parents finally told me that my dad was "working on some things." At first I thought they were talking about building the rest of his house, because my dad had been trying to build an extra room for his new daughter, Darcy. Then I thought about it some more and thought that it was because he was trying to quit smoking. Later, when I was in fourth grade, my parents finally told me that I was not allowed to see my dad because he does illegal drugs. He also has multiple felonies for things such as stealing cars, and he also took my sister Madison for several months against her mother's will.

Although I am not allowed to see him in person, every now and then my dad calls. My birthday. Christmas. Sometimes he'll call me on a random Sunday. The conversations are always the same. We start with "How are you" and then we talk about school and all that stuff. When I ask him about his life, he just says, "I'm doing fine." And I can't help but wonder, was it all a lie? Was everything that I remember about him just fake? Did I ever actually see his true self, or was he always on drugs?

After one day of him calling me, I decided to tell my mom that I didn't want to talk to him anymore. The only way I would talk to him would be if he came up with a negative drug test. Every time I talked to him it did no benefit, leaving me feeling more broken than I did before. I couldn't stand it, so I had to put my foot down.

There are many places that I cannot simply look at without being reminded of everything that happened. I can't go to Harter House anymore. Nana and I used to go there all the time to shop for groceries. I cannot go to the Branson Welcome Center anymore, either, because that is where my mom used to drop me off so I could go with my dad for the weekend. Honestly, I cannot go to most places in Branson because too many memories come back.

So, let me ask you, what would you do if you found out that your whole life with someone was a lie? Or could have been?
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