A Different Kind of Hurt

My father is not the worst in the world. He does not beat me: He does not yell at me. He would console me if I cried. He did not leave my mother with debts and credit payments. He did not do drugs, or kill someone, or get thrown in jail. He has hurt me in a different way.

He has abandoned me.

I say that in a mild sense of the word: He didn't cut off all ties. He still visits every month or so, when it's convenient for him and his schedule.

He considers himself a company big shot, and in some ways, he is. Born in a small Nebraska town, and put with a foster family at sixteen, he has climbed the ladder and gone to college, albeit at age forty, and online. He works for Boeing, ordering parts and managing work on the 787's wings. Where does he do his work?

In Le Havre, France. Me, my little sister, and mother live in Washington.

When I was in fifth grade, I was the stereotypical innocent kid. I was in honors programs, had straight As, and was in every extra-curricular activity in the school. I never thought anything could bring my perfect nerd-world down. Even when my father went to work all night and slept all day. Even though I talked to him an average of once a week. Even though I heard my parents fighting at night while I was reading, though I was supposed to be sleeping.

But the world does not work that way. One day, my father came home from work and gathered us all in my room. He told us that he was getting a 'separation' from my mother: A halfway point between marriage and divorce. Tears burned my eyes, but I would not break down and cry. I learned that from the bullies who teased me for being smart. From my father, who never cried or showed his sadness. Crying was weak.

He moved into an apartment a hour and a half away, closer to his work. I saw him every other weekend to visit and do something. Me and my sister stayed in his apartment, entertaining ourselves and cooking for ourselves while he used the computer for work or watched TV. He was so inattentive that when he got us beds, he never realized that he had gotten us uncomfortable box springs (the hard mattress without padding that goes under a mattress to support it) to sleep on at night. Still, it was more than I'd ever seen him. It still is.

A year later, when I was in sixth grade, he ended the separation and him and my mother got back together. He made plans of building a second story on our house, of vacations to beaches and theme parks, of happy days filled with outdoor fun with the whole family. What beautiful images he painted! But none ever happened. He worked even more often, was promoted and worked in a city three hours away, called Everett. Everything for the new plane, the 787 was happening there. Two years passed, and his visits home were scattered farther and farther apart. He was promoted again, and did work on the east coast and France for weeks at a time, even though we were a well off family. We weren't rich, but me and my sister were spoiled rotten.

Then, in September of last year, my mother had to stay after work for a 'meeting'. She is a nurse, and this had never happened before. Still, I thought nothing of it. My grandmother called later to make sure I knew she was staying after. She, being the only one who didn't lie to me, told me that my mother was meeting my father to talk. I knew something was up.

Then, my mother came home and told me. My mother and father were getting a divorce. I expected nothing less, and in a way that makes me sad, I really didn't care. My father was not a big part of my life anymore.

Right before winter break, we had our school play, Seussical! the Musical. I was cast as Gertrude McFuzz (a geeky bird), the lead girl part. I was excited, because I never had even auditioned for a play before! Everyone told me I had talent and was a great singer. I went to practice everyday, even when it wasn't required.

I told my dad about it, and he said he would come. It seemed like it couldn't get any better. Rehearsals passed, and finally show night came.

The theater had 140 seats, and every seat was full. Even though tickets were five dollars, there were so many people that children sat on parents' laps and people were standing in the aisles. I managed to locate my mother and extended family in the crowd, but not my father. Then, during the finale, after all my solos and duets, my father quietly slipped into the theater and stood right next to the door. I only saw because I was on the side of the stage.

Finally, we took our bows. The crowd went crazy and clapped for a long time. My father was emailing someone on his Blackberry phone.

I went outside, where random parents congratulated me on my splendid performance and my family gave me flowers and cards. My father came over and told me that I did a good job. How does he know? I thought. He wasn't even there.

After break, I was explaining to a friend about why I had to reschedule our plans to go to the movies that weekend because my father was coming home from France. Christine, a girl whose parents deserted her and let her grandmother raise her, a girl who was known to drink and smoke, a girl who was still pretty well liked (I liked her too, but I didn't know her well) said something to me that shocked me. "Your dad's kind of a jackass, isn't he?" she said. I'd talked about my father living in France and coming home little to one of my friends before, but I didn't know she'd listened in, even though I didn't care if people knew. "I mean, he's got a family and all and he barely comes home?" I didn't know what to say, so I shrugged my shoulders and she turned to have a conversation with one of her friends.

My father hasn't changed. He still works in France and barely comes home. When he does, he comes when it's convenient for him, and I have to cancel plans for him. He buys me and my sister pretty things and fancy electronics. He missed my birthday this year.

I am not a rape victim. I am not a homeless teen. I am not a starving child in a third-world country. For all this, I feel grateful for what I have. I strive to do the best I can in everything I do, so that if I grow up and become famous or rich or well-to-do, I can make use of every opportunity that others don't have, and so I can donate to them so that they do get chances to rise up against their obstacles and make a life for themselves. I am grateful.

This May, I was Tall Alice in Alice in Wonderland, another musical. It was the second highest lead.

This time, my father didn't show up at all.