I don’t mean to say these things to hurt you, but I feel you should know. I want you to know. Think of it as a legend, passed down in the oral traditions of old. A tale of two misguided souls and the lives they created and destroyed.
I know your mother and stepfather have shared with you their versions of the past. How your mother rose above her traumatic past, how your father was always self absorbed, how your stepfather was there for you both.
But did she mention that you were not her first? That your father was really a normal teenager, with normal teenage angst and anger? That there was also no way for the two of you to live without her remarrying somebody?
It is a beautiful story, full of heroism and good hearts, saviors and villains. But what gets lost in translation?
If I could pass to you the same story, as it was passed down to me, in the ancient oral traditions.
Your mother had a troubled childhood, yes. But she didn’t get help for it. She did the usual things teenage girls do when they have unresolved issues. She turned to sex and drugs and got pregnant three times. She chose you. She chose your father.
Your father was young and had his own worries, true. But he wanted to be responsible as well, and made you legitimate. Worked for you and her, took care of you. But he was losing himself, he was trapped. He didn’t want to be your disappointment, he wanted to be a better everything for you: smarter, a better provider, an abler man.
Your mother would blame him forever for leaving you and her behind. You were too young to remember, but he wasn’t the one who left. She left him while they were married. She eschewed him from her presence. She would pride herself on being progressive in her approach with you, brag to her friends about her working relationship with your father, but underneath—deep down—she had already gotten all she would ever want from him: you.
He left, and she was remarried within a few months. Yes, she had him all lined up for years. A man (who may I just add coincidentally uses the same adjectives to physically describe himself as your real father does) who would always be there for you, who could pass for your dad without question, to perfect her ideal family. He would listen to her. He would provide. He would stay.
And so you lived, pleasantly for years. Your mother, the man you remember being always there, and the man who picked you up to take to school and to return home for dinner every night. And so you lived, as the son of your mother and stepfather, brought up in their image, never thinking of—or being reminded—of the first man who held you and loved you as you were his own. And so you lived, cradled in their shadows, dependant upon their needs for you and their approval.
And then your dad was able to complete his education. And he made a career for himself, just as your mother had done. And he moved to where you were, as was his plan all along, for he missed you terribly. And you were his. You belonged together.
I wonder now, at this point in all our lives, what you thought?
Did you even notice? Did you hear the bite in your mother’s voice when she told you he was coming, or that you were going to visit? Did she hold up her end of the façade, that she was progressive-minded, that every boy should relate to his biological father? Because this is where our versions of the story diverge.
We had secret meetings while you were out of the house. Your father—your real father—wanted to be just that. He wanted to have his say in your life. He thought you were wonderful, of course, but he did want more for you. Better. And he didn’t see it coming from your mother and stepfather. He just wanted to share himself, as they have been, with you. But your mother and stepfather did not want to hear any of it. They did not want to be told to change their ways, they did not want to be told they should share. They scolded us. They told us where to get off. They made sure we knew that you did not want us to be permanent in your life.
It wasn’t the first time your mother had scathed your father. It wasn’t the last. She continued to do so for months, berating him, belittling him—sometimes in front of you, most often behind your back. I can only imagine she knew the importance of playing the role of the good mother. She would torment us with her outrage, her outbursts and then turn around and offer one of her well rehearsed apologies. It was a cycle. She is not healthy. Not really.
And you are just a kid, so what do you know? You don’t worry yourself with adult concerns, you barely plan ahead for your own week. You don’t know the truth about your parents, who they were and who they have become. You just know that your mother and stepfather love you and care for you, always have and always will. You know that they are easy and nice and comfortable to be around. You know that your father and I have expectations of you, want you to be smarter, stronger, capable. Our values are different, yes, some of them are. But we have never looked down on your virtues, your creativity, or your innocence, as you seem to believe we have. You have hurt us both terribly by your resistance to share in your father’s life, his offerings to you, your reluctance to immerse yourself in our lives and personalities.
It’s been hard for you I know, but I’m not here to coddle you. That is not my job. My job is to be the best wife to your father. And that means listening to him--his words, his breathing, his body—as he thinks of you. To support him, talk him through the guilt he’s made to feel by your mother, by society, by you. You were never taught to think of others’ feelings, how your words and actions affect those close to you. It’s your loss really. You will never be this young again, with so many open opportunities to create a foundation to live on. It’s the way you were raised, in the image of your creator, life-giver, bearer of your beating heart…and nothing more.