Coming Back
My father and I quit speaking when I was eighteen. My childhood had never been the most pleasant with my father yelling at my mother and even beating her a few times, but the final event that made my decision of not speaking with him was when he hit me.
I was driving home from an antique show, my mother in the backseat and my father in the seat beside me. He gave me directions on getting on the interstate, but not fully understanding, I questioned for clarification. In my doing so, my father reached over and punched me in the arm. The car slightly jerked, but I was not hurt—physically. Emotionally, I was more scarred than I had ever been. I wanted to pull the car over and tell him to get out. Instead, I did nothing, and neither did my mother.
The next summer, I came home from college. One night, my father and I began arguing. I packed my belongings and filled my car. On my last trip before I was about to leave, my father stood in the doorway of my room. His presence locked me in my room, and I could not escape. I yelled and screamed at him, but I could not win. I reached for my phone and called my grandparents. They quickly came over and took my parents to the living room. They talked for hours. Out of exhaustion, I fell asleep, but when I awoke my grandparents had left. I gathered the remaining belongings and left my parents’ house.
For the rest of the summer and the following summers until I bought my first place, I slept at my grandparents’ house, but I always took my belongings with me. I did not live there. I did not have a home. I could have lived there if I wanted to, but I was fearful of having another home—though I yearned for one.
Though I have not spoken to my father in over seven years, I now yearn for a home. I don’t know if I will ever obtain the image I have of a home, but I yearn for it so deeply from within my soul.