I realized yesterday that in the most pleasant memory I have of my birth father, his back is turned on me. In the mornings when I was growing up, he’d make his coffee and stand in the kitchen, looking out the window, sipping loudly every few moments.
He was a lazy, irresponsible and abusive man. We lived in fear that one little thing would set him into a rampage. And so, with his back turned to us and our breakfast cereal, it was the closest to safe I think we ever felt in those years.
I don’t remember the day he moved out. I remember him being there and being gone. I remember him returning to get stuff he’d left behind. I remember being confused when I found my mother crying the day their divorce was finalized.
I guess I’m grateful to him for not fighting for visitation and for not contacting us even once in the last 20 years. But I’m more grateful that on those Saturday mornings, he kept his back to us and our Captain Crunch instead of taking an interest in our thoughts and dreams. That one little thing ensured we’d never learn to love him. And I’m grateful for that every day.
Submitted by Anonymous