Aspire Magazine: Inspiration for a Woman's Soul.(TM) Oct/Nov 2018 Aspire Mag Full Issue | Page 38
grandparents wonder where I was? Why
had my brother said no?
We flew to Miami. I leaned against the
window and stared at the horizon for the
entire flight. By the time we landed, I felt
nauseated. My turtleneck and jeans, perfect
for the northern winter, had me sweltering
down south. I wanted to talk to my dad.
Desperately.
My mother’s tiny apartment was one block
off Biscayne Bay, a fact she highlighted as if
the water would entice me to love the squat
concrete building. She invited me to look
around.
I opened a closet, intending to hang up my
coat. It was full of men’s clothes. My brain
couldn’t compute. Who lived here? Before
I could ask, my mother appeared in the
doorway.
“I was going to tell you. I live here with
my boyfriend. You met him once. At the
commissary. He was the bread delivery
man.” Her words swept over me like a flash
flood. “Do you remember him?”
I said, “I want to call my dad” and walked to
the far side of the room where a telephone
sat on the night table. Sinking onto the bed, I
dialed the phone number to my grandparents’
house.
My dad answered on the first ring. “Hello.”
“Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so
sorry. I want to come home.” Tears streamed
down my cheeks and fell onto my lap.
“Where are you,” he asked, his voice gruff. After
I answered, he said, “Put your mother on.”
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I slipped out of the room while they spoke.
I heard my mother’s voice grow strident as
they argued.
When she finally emerged, she said, her voice
hard, “You’ll be on a flight tomorrow morning.”
She brushed past me, the heat of her anger
hotter than the Miami temperatures.
When I landed in Philadelphia, my dad and
grandmother were at the gate. I walked off
the gangway to where they waited. Neither
hugged or spoke to me. Once they clapped
eyes on me, they turned and walked away. I
shuffled behind them all the way to the car,
my head down.
For over thirty years, I based my self-
worth on that single event. I told myself
that I deserved my father’s ire. I was the
family black sheep, undeserving of love.
The tape inside my head reminded me
of my poor decisionmaking, and it played
on a loop. The litmus test I used was my
nine-year-old brother’s superior judgment
to stay behind.
In 2001, when I recounted this story to my
therapist, mentioning it as an aside months
into our work, she laid down her notepad
and pen. Removing her half-moon glasses,
she asked, “Why didn’t your brother go with
you that day?”
“I don’t know.” It had never occurred to me to
ask him. I felt foolish.
“Debby, who were the adults here?” Her
voice was kind and soft. “What would you
tell your children in this situation?”
I pondered for a moment. “This wasn’t my
fault. I was just a kid.” Recognizing the
burden I’d carried for what it was, I felt lighter
just speaking the words.
www.AspireMAG.net | October / November 2018