Young Writers Society

I soon realized that I had learned three things that night. Three horrible, unanticipated things:

1. My parents had kept a startling secret from me: I was adopted.

2. My adopted father didn’t even care about me anymore.

3. I was probably never going to see him again.

My sobs were starting to get out of control. I wondered if Mom was still standing there by the door, crying like I was. I didn’t want to look – her pain was too much for me. Mom had loved Dad so much.

I had thought that he loved us, that he wanted to stay with us and keep our family together. Never had I thought about what would happen if he had suddenly vanished from our lives, saying that he hated our guts. It was so sudden. He did not even say ‘goodbye’ or give us fair warning. More tears brimmed over and splashed my cheeks. I missed him already.

As if that was not bad enough, my parents had been keeping the secret of my adoption from me my whole life. I could not believe that they did not mention a thing about it for fourteen years. I was okay with being adopted, but not knowing about it and being lied to for my complete existence was an entirely different concept.

They could have lied to me about other things, too, I thought with loathing, I don’t know if I can ever trust them again. When are they telling the truth?

I rubbed my watery eyes on my sleeve and stood up. I couldn’t be angry at Mom right now. Not with what she was going through. I could wait a few days. Gradually, I stood up on the waxed floor of the kitchen and looked around the corner to the living room. Mom was sitting there, her eyes still staring out the window, trying to hold on to her last ounce of faith. She was an utter wreck. Her tears were continual and it looked as if all of the hope that she had had so much of before had been sucked out of her body, leaving her looking almost lifeless.

“Mom?” I worded, pitying her. She leapt up from the sofa in shock, staring at me for a second like I was some kind of alien or something. After gazing at me for a little while, she finally snapped out of it.

“Oh, Afina,” she broke down, more tears streaking her face. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I…I really can’t believe it. T-this can’t be happening…it shouldn’t be happening. Y-your father…”

“I know,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around her. For a second time, tears formed in my eyes. Mom’s crying was contagious. “It’s okay, Mom. We can get through this…it will work out. Be strong.”

The hug lasted for what seemed like hours. My ears could make out a faint rustle of the covers, and then footsteps up on the second floor. The wooden creaking of the stairs was what really caught my attention. Oh my gosh, I thought, freaking out. It’s Jolea! What am I going to tell her? Is Mom going to say anything? How can she understand this? She’s eight years old, for God’s sake!

Hastily, but gently, I pushed Mom’s arms away. She gave me a puzzled look, and I started to explain as quickly as I could.

“Mom,” I said, my voice soft. “Don’t you hear the stairs creaking? It’s Jolea. We must have woken her up. What are we going to say? I know that she won’t be able to comprehend any of this!”

“We’ll figure something out,” she said, still looking worried. Maybe she was lying to me right now. “I promise that I won’t let this family fall apart.”

“Good luck with that,” I murmured sarcastically. Luckily, Mom did not show any sign of hearing that comment.

The noise became louder as my little sister came into the kitchen. She seemed confused, maybe even angry. She walked up to us in the living room, curiosity taking hold of her. Her sapphire eyes looked around the room, searching for any sign of Dad. Jolea glowered at us, waiting for an explanation.

“You guys are crying,” she stated wryly. “I haven’t seen any of you…”

“Either,” I corrected her with a sniffle.

“Fine, either, whatever…” she said, rolling her eyes at me. What a self-centered little brat. “I haven’t seen either of you cry in a long, long time. And where the heck is Dad? I couldn’t find him anywhere in this whole house. Our house is pretty little, if you ask me…”

“We didn’t,” I interrupted, smirking at her.

“Shut up,” Jolea bellowed, shooting me a frown and shaking her fists. “You’re a moron! Answer my questions or I’ll punch your face in! I’ll make your nose bleed ‘till you have to go to the hospital.”

See what I mean about her being a brute?

“Jol, honey, stop,” Mom said, sighing and catching Jolea’s wrist, lowering it. “I don’t know if you’ll understand, Sweetie.”

“Stop it, Mom!” Jolea was screaming now. Her eyes were fierce, condescending. “You always think I’m a baby! I’m not as dumb as you think! I’m not a moron like stupid, idiotic Afi! ‘Sweetie’ won’t make me feel better!”

I groaned. Of course she had to mention me. She always referred to me like I was dumber than her. Haha. Yeah right. Her favorite description of me was ‘slow on the uptake.’ Look who’s talking, wisecrack.

Mom gave Jolea a look - that deep, frustrated look that she always gave her when she was being a real jerk. It looked more genuine now that Mom’s tears had dried. Still, Jolea’s expression did not change. She was almost never regretful of anything.

“Jolea,” Mom said sadly. My sister was usually not disappointed about sad things, which is sad in itself. “I’ll try to explain this as best as I can. Your father…”

She looked at me, then back at my little sister, and exhaled slowly.

“We don’t make a lot of money as it is,” Mom tried again. “As you know, I can’t find a job right now, and your father was not making a lot of money with his job, but he really worked hard. He was trying to provide for this family.”

“Did he die?” Jolea blurted out. Her mouth twitched to one side. “You’re talking like he isn’t here anymore. People always talk like that when someone dies. Like at Uncle Patrick’s funeral.”

I bit my lip, looking at Mom with dread.

“Of course not, Jol,” she replied, stunned. “Don’t assume things like that. I don’t think he’s even injured. But what I’m going to say about him may…shock you.”

“Okay,” Jolea answered. “You can tell me. At least he’s not hurt at all, or dead. I think I can handle it.”

“Your father and I,” Mom began. She fought the urge to cry again. “We argued too much. You might have heard us fighting at night before. He really didn’t like that. He also didn’t like the fact that I didn’t have a job. But I was mad at him, too. He didn’t want us to tell Afina something very important. I’ll get to that later.”

I turned away from my mother in fury, staring at the blank wall.

“He said that all of this was just too much for him,” continued Mom, not noticing me. “He couldn’t take it any more. So, he packed up his suitcase, took his coat, and…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

“He left?” Jolea concluded. Her face was blank. “He’ll never come back? Ever? Are you making this up?”

“No,” Mom said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Jolea, it was my fault. We can get through this together, though, okay? Jol?”

“Daddy,” I heard Jolea mumble. Her mouth contorted with grief. “My Daddy. My one and only Daddy. Why did he forget us? That’s not fair!”

Then, my little sister looked at me. Those baby blue eyes of hers, overcome with sadness, locked onto mine. Salty tears stained her skin.

“I need him, Afina, I really do,” she cried. “He’s my Daddy! I love him so, so much - more than the whole wide world. I want him home!”

Suddenly, her stare broke away from me. Her head turned toward the window, and she looked intently through the glass. All that happened next was merely a blur.

“Dad!” Jolea howled in outrage, glancing away from us, trembling weakly. Mom looked very distressed. “You traitor!”

My sister sprung from the couch and sprinted to the front door. Her hands shaking, she turned the doorknob with difficulty and pushed out. She dashed out into the cold shadows of the night, running as fast as she possibly could. My eyes widened and my mouth opened in alarm. What the heck did she think she was doing?

The door slammed shut and I looked over at Mom. It was silent again.