Bittersweet

It had been over a month since I had heard from my dad.

My brother was released from the hospital and enrolled in the private, live in Catholic school. On the weekends my father would take him back to the house he shared with his partner. I didn’t see him, I didn’t want to see him. It was like he simply evaporated from my life, from our lives.

My mother, sister and I looked around our newly quiet home, shell shocked. My sister took the opportunity to dive in further with her friends and full time job. My mother did the same. She started Weight Watchers and went out with her girlfriends on Friday nights, often staying out so late that she went to breakfast with the girls on Saturday mornings.

As for me, I listened to my Rick Springfield and Corey Hart tape cassettes, searching the poster paper eyes on my walls for “la raison d’etre”. I grew bitter looking around at my friends with easier lives. I didn’t invite my friends to our tiny, untidy townhouse. I waited and waited for someone to notice my sadness and misery and anger. And finally, one day, someone did.

He was over six feet tall, with a moustache and a penchant for slightly geeky, but hip only to himself clothes. He was my English teacher, the one that I’d wanted to have so much that I spent a whole semester answering phones in the guidance office.

He noticed.

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