In the dim glow of the motel’s flickering lights, my family finally found refuge from our abusive stepfather. My brother, mother, and I sought solace in this motel room, tainted with the pungency of neglect and an infestation that whispered echoes of our past. Yet, with every creaky floorboard and rat that seemed the size of a small cat, we clung to the hope that we were finally free.
Things were finally starting to look up. Christmas was approaching. The recent escape from our stepfather left us bruised and broken, battered down from years of torment. But now was a time for healing. Maybe, just maybe, we could be a normal family again.
As Christmas finally approached, my family rejoiced. My grandfather, on our dad’s side, had invited us over for dinner—an event we eagerly anticipated. After a long car ride, he emerged from his house to greet us, congratulating us on our daring escape.
Engaging in brief small talk, we entered, greeted by the aroma of freshly cooked ham—a welcome reprieve from the stale air of that old, dingy motel. Later, a knock interrupted the festive atmosphere. Puzzled, I opened the door to find my father, who had abandoned us long ago. Ecstasy overcame me, and I invited him in, attempting to reintroduce him to the family. My grandfather, however, glanced with a face of horror, as if he had just seen a ghost. My mom and brother fell into an eerie silence.
I couldn’t fathom it. While our father had deserted us in what felt like a lifetime ago, was their resentment still so intense? I was angry too, but couldn’t they find it in themselves to forgive him, especially on Christmas?
Regardless, I pulled out a chair for my father, and we gathered around the dinner table. After weeks of surviving on canned beans and ramen, this meal made it all worthwhile. Our father complimented my grandfather’s glazed ham, but the table remained silent. Enraged, I shouted, “I know you guys are upset with him. Trust me, I get it! I know he wasn’t there before, but he’s here now, and that’s what matters! Why can’t we just forgive him already?” before storming off.
As my father approached, he spoke with a tone of understanding, “I know it must be hard for them, and for you. I regret the pain I caused. It’s understandable that they feel hurt, but I want to make things right.”
Summoning the courage, I confronted him, “Why did you abandon us? Do you have any idea what we went through?” His eyes softened, and he offered a heartfelt apology, expressing remorse for his past actions.
Regretful and emotionally drained, I rejoined my family. With a heavy heart, I apologized, “I shouldn’t have shouted like that. I just thought… I wanted…”
Confusion filled my family’s eyes. My mom responded, “Are you feeling alright? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know it’s hard to accept but your father died long ago. Don’t you remember?”
Then, a chilling realization overcame me. My father had died well over a decade ago—an Iraqi vet who took his own life on Christmas Day. So, who was this man that looked exactly like my father? It couldn’t be him. He acted, sounded like him, but it couldn’t be. Perhaps I was delusional. Whatever it was, it felt so real.
He told me he has to go back now and wants me to join him. As he faded away, I whisper, “Maybe I will”
We miss you dad!