Of Fathers and Sons

I'll never forget that morning when my mother woke up.

"Sean, wake up!"

"Come on! You have to wake up right now!"

"Grab your clothes, what toys you want to take, and anything else you think you might need! We're leaving."

It was a summer morning in 1988. I was barely 10 years old. After almost 16 years and a divorce with no remarriage, my mother decided to leave my father once and for all.

Little did I know at the time, but she had been planning this for awhile. She already sent my older sister off to New Hampshire to live with relatives. Now it was our turn to leave this little hole-in-the-wall redneck town in Tennessee and join my sister on the east coast.

It would be ten years before I would see my father again.

It was a cold night in Utah in January of 1998. As the snow lightly fell, I made my way home from work. My roommate and I had only had phone service for a couple of weeks. Of course, the service was in my name since she had long ago destroyed her credit; I had not yet been lucky enough to experience that joy.

I wasn't expecting a call when I checked the answering machine that night. As soon as I heard the voice I knew it was him. Although it had been ten years since I had seen my father or even spoke to him, I hadn't forgotten.

For a moment, I was frozen. It was just long enough to allow wave after wave of emotion to crash into me stripping away everything I thought I had become until there was nothing left except that little terrified 10 year old boy I once was.

It was all too much. I ran to my room and hid in my closet. The old familiar routine. I began to sob.

"How did he find me?!"

"What does he want from me?"

"I haven't forgotten what you did to us!"

All of these thoughts continued to run through my mind as I huddled in the corner of that dark closet and wept. From somewhere inside me, I heard my own voice reminding me that I was no longer that little boy and that I didn't have to be afraid any more.

For 10 years I had heard nothing but degrading, hateful remarks against my father. I didn't know what memories were real and what had been manufactured from the ceaseless barrage my mother provided.

I had to find out. I had to know, for myself, who he really was. I wasn't that little boy anymore. I wasn't afraid anymore.

To be continued