“That’s fucked up, don’t you think?”

“What’s fucked up?” I ask. My wife is driving us home from my mom’s, and once again, as I always do, I’ve gotten lost in my own thoughts of nothing, not paying attention to a word she’s saying.

“What your mom said.”

“Wait, why? What did my mom say?”

“About your dad.” I meet her with a blank expression on my face. “About how she was the one who left him.”

This was all foreign to me. “I don’t remember hearing her say that.”

“How could you not have heard it? You were right in the kitchen with us when I was talking to your mom about it.”

I mull it over while I return to people-watching. People walking up and down the L-Wood. Hanging out at the eateries and coffee shops. Shopping at the locally-owned stores with bad puns for names like Be You Tiful and Damsel In A Dress. This isn’t the first time my brain has completely shut down and blocked out the world around me.

One time I was watching the news with my wife (who was just my girlfriend at the time). There had been a story about a murder victim whose body was dumped at a cemetery. But if you had asked me ten minutes later, I couldn’t have told you I ever saw such a story. The next morning, my mom called me to say that my best friend from kindergarten was dead.

“That’s the guy from the news story last night,” my wife pointed out when I told her.

“What news story?”

“The one we saw last night. The one where the guy’s body was dumped at the cemetery.” The ever-familiar blank expression appeared on my face. “How can you not remember? You even joked that it was convenient that they left the body at the cemetery.”

But try as I might, to this day, I still can’t recall a single thing about watching that news story. Just as now I can’t remember anything my mom said about leaving my dad.

“Well?” my wife asks. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

I shrug. “It’s still pretty much all a blank.”

So my wife retells me everything. And I try my best to pay attention, to not let my mind close up.

“I asked her what had happened between her and your dad. I mean, I hope you don’t mind. I’m just always curious to learn more about your past.”

“No, it’s okay.” Behind me, our son is babbling and playing with his Magic Friend Barney doll.

She continues. “Then she started telling me how back in Puerto Rico, your father was a doctor. He told her he was going to get them a house in the Dominic Republic. So he went over there to house hunt. When he found something, he came back to get you guys. But your mom had already taken you and moved away.”

I let this all sink in. By now, we’re home again. I unbuckle our son from the car seat and carry him inside, where he starts running around the house.

“You’re quiet,” my wife says.

“Just thinking.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s one of my mom’s things. She doesn’t always know what she’s saying.”

It’s a possibility. My mom doesn’t speak English very well. She tends to mix up her words and mangle her meanings. I could probably poke holes in this story. But that would kind of miss the point, wouldn’t it?

My whole life, I’ve been led to believe my father abandoned me. I tried hard not to let it define me. I didn’t want to be one of those people blaming all of my pain and misery on the fact that Daddy didn’t want me. But I’m just as defined by the fact that I’ve tried so hard to deny this aspect of my life.

My wife asks, “Well, do you ever think about searching for your father? Maybe he’s been trying to find you. Maybe your mom won’t let him back into your life. Maybe he’s really a good guy. I mean, I think this has affected you more than you’d care to admit. Don’t you think maybe it’s time you found out the truth?”

Our son runs up to give me a hug. I scoop him in my arms and spin him around. His contagious laughter echoes through the room.

The truth is that the absence of a father in my life has led me to make sure I forge my own strong father-son bond.

“No,” I say. And that’s the end of the discussion.

About the Author

Al Cerda

Al Cerda is a former writer/editor for Generation Magazine. These days, he devotes most of his time to his family, but occasionally writes a little something