He said that there was something we wanted to share with you. His voice was steady and his words were slow and methodical. I wonder if you thought the same.
And first, he reminded you that we loved you very much.
You had reached maximum impatience by now and folded your arms in front of your chest. I understood, and in some ways shared, your sense of urgency to get it out in the open already.
He reminded you that he was your real father.
I braced myself for the deluge and could tell you were doing the same.
And then he explained that he was not your biological father.
The room all of a sudden felt colder and more cavernous. I locked my fingers into a neat pile on my lap to keep them from flitting around nervously. I didn’t want to force you into any kind of reaction. The look in your eyes started to change immediately.
He matter-of-factly stated that he could not have biological children of his own. Which was the truth. But it was the part that I knew would make my insides squirm.
You asked who your biological father was.
I felt it was my turn to chime in and bear some of the burden of the conversation. We decided that we were not going to lie to you about any of it. I explained that it was someone I had met on a trip to purchase furniture a long time ago.
You caught on quickly and asked if it happened more than the one time. I was surprised that your view of relationships was already that sophisticated.
I could feel that your words were picking up momentum and heat. I squeezed my eyes together and tried not to cry. Or scream. Or run out of the room. Or throw my arms around you and your father or both and then grovel and cry.
Your father tried to interfere and his voice boomed when he did. It was rare he sounded so big and strong. But he did right then. I knew how badly he wanted things to go smoothly. But how could they?
Something raw and fragile had taken over you, but there was also vicious grief apparent in your eyes. A hint of a tear danced on your eyelid. Your cheeks got hot and red and your green eyes began swirling with something even more fierce. You looked like you were capable of doing anything.
It scared me.
And then, without another word, you got up from your seat.
And then there was a full teenage explosion, in a fashion that only you could summon.
Your fingers balled up into tight little fists and your knees popped up and your heels slammed down on the floor as you walked to the other side of the living room. You picked up the picture frame from the sleek midcentury modern console pressed up against the wall. It was a vintage Tiffany’s silver frame I’d got a decade ago in a town in Virginia, and I’d placed a photo in it of the three of us at a baseball game. We were smiling in our seats, wearing matching Yankees baseball uniforms with our arms slung around each other. You were in the middle, with a big pile of peanuts in your lap, smiling up at the camera through missing teeth. You tilted the frame to one side and then the other, staring into the image at the center.
I tried to figure out what you were thinking. Was it sadness? Longing? Fury? Hope? Love? I wanted to know so I could soothe you. For a brief instant I thought the rage may be subsiding but then, in an instant, you brought the frame above your head and slammed it down onto the floor. The silver clanked against the wood floor and the glass of the frame shattered immediately; shards flew in every direction.
Your father and I both gasped. I reached for your father’s hand, but he had already brought one to his heart and the other right on top of it. I expected this would be the main event of the tantrum—that you would march right on upstairs to your room and slam the door, having made your statement. But you just stared down at the pile of glass, your green eyes swirling with what I was now sure was rage.
You bent down and pulled the picture from the pile of glass and pinched it between the tips of your fingers. The photo itself appeared unscathed despite the mess underneath it. But I was sure it wouldn’t remain this way for long. And still without saying a word, you opened the drawer of the console and pulled out a sleek black pen.
You picked your head up slowly and looked straight into my eyes. There was heat and fire and aching in them. And then you assertively twisted the back of the pen and forced the inky point from its tip straight through my eyeballs in the photo. And then you did the same to your father’s eyeballs. And then you dropped the photo at your feet carelessly.
I instinctively lunged toward you. “Honey, plea—” I started.
But before I could finish my plea, you stamped your foot into the ground and, through gritted teeth, flinched back into place and remained motionless next to me, stunned.
You took a slow step forward. Your foot rocked over the broken glass, crackling slowly as you transferred your weight from your heel to your toes and walked toward the small table next to the couch, where three more family photos were propped up with pride. Smiling faces with white teeth and joyful eyes. Ice cream and beaches and gorgeous scenery. Bodies huddled together with love.
You picked each one up and smashed them onto the ground. And again, through the craggy piles of glass, you picked up each photo and stabbed through the eyes with that same sharp black pen.
I felt my cheeks tense and I began weeping. Tears spilled from my eyes as I watched you destroy the memories of our happy life. But it seemed only fair. I had certainly just shattered your image of a happy life.
When I snapped back to the scene, I noticed you were heading for the dresser that your father kept all our family photos in. My throat constricted and my feet felt stuck in their place. Without even realizing, my hands had come up for cover over my mouth. I couldn’t fathom what you were about to do, but then you did it. You pulled open the drawer and vigorously tore out photo after photo, stabbing each quickly and haphazardly with the pen.
Your father launched over and wrapped his arms around you. Why hadn’t I been able to do that?
He pulled you tight and close and your body went limp. I watched your arms slink over your father’s shoulder and then your fingers uncurled from the pen. Finally, you dropped the photos that were in your hands and as you sank down to the floor, your father sank down with you, his arms still tight around your body.
He reminded you how much he loved you. He let it sink in.
He said again and again that he loved you, with his eyes closed, rocking you back and forth a little.
My fingers were now clutching my sweater over my heart as I watched the reality I had created and then sat here so pathetically observing from afar. I felt, at once, the inevitable consequence of my actions all those years ago. I felt my own tears coming down my cheeks.
As you lay your head on your father’s shoulder and sank into his arms even further, I thought I heard you whisper that you hated him.
I thought the incident was over after you stormed into your room but you came flying back out within a few minutes. You just yelled and yelled, asking for his name.