I Know That Mask

By , Chicago, IL
I feel the vibration on the left side of my thigh, deep inside my pocket, and I guarantee I know who this calling me: my dad.

How did I know that? Well, as depressing as it sounds, I don’t have many friends. The ones that I do have are acquaintances, not close relationships. So, I would expect only two people to call me: my mother or my father, and my mother never calls me unless she needs to know where I am, and she knew exactly where I was.
I reach into my pocket and feel the plastic of my phone…I really don’t want to take it out of my pocket….but, I do.
Yup, it is my dad.
Great. What could he possibly want? Ugh.
I answer and I can hear him talking to other people. Great, he’s probably around his “friends”.
I really don’t want to be part of a conversation with my dad when he’s around people. He’s always so fake around them. He laughs at things that aren’t funny, offers kindness that doesn’t exist within him, and becomes the victim when it is useful for him.
“Hello?” The innocence in his voice makes me gag.
“Yes? what do you want?” I always have a natural hostility towards my father. I can’t blame myself.
“Why do you always have an attitude with me?”
You see!
I hate when he asks me these kinds of questions! . He suddenly becomes the victim! My victim. and I can’t stand that this all happens through the phone where his audience has no visibility or awareness of what I feel or have to say. If anything I could be shouting out how much of an a** he is for abandoning us and being a selfish egotistical b******, but he’ll probably play it out and go, oh no honey, I’d love to BLANK, but I have LIE to NOT DO. Oh well. I don’t need him. I’ll just hang up…





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