Note: Names have been changed to protect the privacy of others.

Not only were there always arguments that upset my stomach, but I always had a lingering curiosity about why my dad had left. I didn’t understand why my mom and dad couldn’t make it work. I was four when it happened, so I didn’t think about this until much later, but around seven or eight, I wondered. Not only did my dad leave, but he moved to another city in Ohio and eventually moved to Michigan where the rest of his family resided. I wanted to know if he missed me at all. I thought about that a lot. All I figured was they just decided that they didn’t love each other anymore. They had “grown apart”. That was the perpetual excuse on both ends. So, I always had this idea that marriage could just fall apart at any given time because two people simply “grow apart”, whatever that means. Apparently, things didn’t work out because my dad had been in the military for so long, and they had gotten married and pregnant far too young. This is an age-old story known by many who marry too young, especially the baby boomers —  and the direct result is a confused child or two. They were fresh out of high school and nineteen when they had my brother, Sam. My dad was a Sergeant in the Army and his military recruiting job kept him busy. This was all back in a time so long ago that I forget ever having lived under the same roof with my mom, dad and Sam.

Our little foursome is something foreign to me. Sam is eight years older than me. We were never close. My punk-rock brother left me and my mom when my dad left and they moved to Columbus, Ohio. At least that’s what they tell me. My dad took his guitar and amp with him. I remember the way his guitar case smelled when he opened it and the air that puffed out when he closed it. Wood and oil. His guitar was his baby. He polished it incessantly. He played magical things on it. When Sam decided to move in with my dad, he took all his cut-off sweatshirts and tinted glasses. He took all the cool board games like Operation, Mouse Trap, and some game with plastic pieces of Frankenstein. That was my favorite game, and he took it. All I know is that I missed my dad. I think I also might’ve missed my big brother. I think I really missed the thought of them living with me, not the actual memories. I cannot miss the memories that I don’t have. All I really have are old pictures that serve as a replacement for the forgotten. I can only imagine my mom’s pain during this time. Her first child and only son…leaving along with her failed marriage.

Other than the early photos of a forgotten childhood, all I have are the handed-down traits that Daddy gave me. Like the fact that I love black coffee. My dad loves black coffee. My mom’s coffee is sickeningly sweet with a pale beige color from using too much damn CoffeeMate and sugar.

She just doesn’t get it. She will. Never. Get. It.