Our father was “around” in the loosest sense. He appeared just often enough to leave emotional bruises and then vanish again. When I was a teenager, he made a sport out of mocking me—especially in front of other people. I wore black, listened to music he didn’t understand, and sometimes painted my nails.
“What are you, some kind of goth?” he’d laugh. “Not a son—just a shadow.”
My mom always stepped in. She’d shut it down, change the subject, and later remind me that I wasn’t the labels he tried to stick on me.
Then she got pregnant. The triplets weren’t planned, and even the doctors seemed startled—speaking softly, staring at the ultrasound like it had to be a mistake. Mom was nervous, but there was light in her eyes too. She was scared, yes, but she was also genuinely happy.
- Three babies on the way
- A mother trying to be brave
- A household already held together by her patience
Our father started fading out before they were even born. He became a ghost who left behind only unanswered questions.
