He would come home at times where it seemed like the whole world was silent. Everything was quiet, except for the gentle steps he took up creaking stairs to make sure he didn't wake us up on a school night. I never quite understood why he always had to come home so late, as if what he was doing was so secret (or I don't know, maybe illegal) but being the young child that I was, I was convinced that it was because, “Daddy was working hard and sometimes that meant not coming home until we were already asleep” I would consider myself to be a “Daddy’s little girl” I always got what I wanted, even without having to ask for it. But had I known that it was bought with money from destroyed lives, I would’ve never accepted.
The first fond memory I have of my father and I is when I visited him in jail. The environment as a whole was just new to me. Regardless of all the shows and movies you see of jails and prisons, it will never compare to being in the real thing. The first thing I questioned was why everyone shared the same spoiled orange juice color jumpsuits. The jumpsuits were either your size or the exact opposite, and everyone had expressionless faces. Mothers held their children in arms, and on the other side was a proud father, smiling back, and making playful faces. The second thing I questioned was why I had to speak to my father through phones separated by a glass wall. He talked to me the same way he always had, but I didn’t feel the same with this conversation as I had with others. Fast forward a couple months to my name being called and me rushing downstairs to my father, out of the spoiled orange juice color jumpsuit and back into clothes that represented who he was. A bag was wrapped around big fingers in one hand, and another rested by his side.
The first time, I was able to accept that he was just gone with no reason and back the next, but the second time was different. When I was eight years old, I remember my father telling me in a soft voice, “I may not be here for Christmas this year” I looked at him with an odd smirk and asked him what he meant. All he could say was that “He needed to take care of a few things” I still didn’t understand what he meant, or what he had to do, so I ignored his comment and continued on. My dad stopped staying at home with us, and instead, stayed at my great grandmother's house (who would’ve now been deceased at the time) I questioned why Daddy couldn’t come home, and time and time again, I received the same sugarcoated bull shit answer. “Daddy has to take care of things” “Daddy is going away on business” “Daddy will be back before you know it” One night, as we were leaving my father’s, I looked at him and he smiled, then kissed my head and buckled my brother and I in the car. Driving away, I watched as he grew smaller and smaller in distance, but hands stills rested on his knees as he stared into the sky, looking for something. A couple days later, he arrived at our house, dressed in normal clothes, and in a rush, like he was late for something. He asked me to get my mom and brother, and I did as he smiled at me. I ran up the stairs excitedly. Maybe Daddy wanted to surprise everyone by letting them know that he was finally home again. When my mom came downstairs, she carried a trash bag decorated in lumps from too many shirts and pants. She handed it to my father and whispered something in his ear. He then came over to my brother and I, told us that he loved us both very much, and that he would “See us soon” When he left, I watched him get into the car and drive off. That was the last time I saw him.
Letters couldn’t compare to phone calls, and phone calls couldn’t compare to actually talking to him face to face-- seeing him throw hand gestures to add more excitement to the words he was saying. That year, my mother had the idea of creating a paper chain decorated in numbers. The numbers represented how many days remained left before I would see my father again, and everyday I would go to bed early, so that the next day came faster and I could rip off another chain. After a while, I ran out of chains.
I hated him. I hated everyone. I started to believe my father had left us because he didn’t love us and I hated everyone else for supporting his actions. It felt as if my father was already dead. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know what is worse-- knowing your father is alive and that he could be in your life but chooses not to be, or knowing that your father is buried six feet deep and nothing, not even prayer, could bring him back. 10 years go by. That’s how long it’s been since my father has seen my face. Some days, I don’t even remember what he looks like. Pictures are the time capsules of my past with my father. And I keep them buried deep in shoe boxes and albums to preserve those memories. I always wonder why my father did what he did. Or why my mother chose to stay by his side. When people ask me about my father, sometimes I say he’s dead. Or depending on my mood, I just say he’s gone. I am the daughter of a drug dealer, and frankly, saying those words probably hurts more than doing the actual drugs itself.
