My dad drives me to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Thirty-five minutes from my house to my school, two times a week.

          Seventy minutes a week.

Seventy minutes is all the time he has to acknowledge my existence.

Seventy minutes is all the time he could bear to spend with me.

          Sometimes he’ll ask me questions, and pretend to care about the answers.

          Sometimes he’ll tell me he can’t drive me for work-related reasons.

          Sometimes I wish I didn’t even have that hour and 10 minutes

Because then maybe I could pretend he didn’t exist.

The same way he pretends I don’t.

          But for Christmas my aunt came, my mom’s sister, my favorite, and I cried in her arms about it.

She says that my dad compartmentalizes, and that’s why he works so much.

She says that if he were to stop working, he would have to confront all the emotions he keeps locked up inside.

She says that after all these years the emotions are trapped and he couldn’t let them out even if he tried.

She says he will one day regret not spending time with me and he will try to mend fences.

          I say that I’ll have no f**ks left to give about him by the time that happens.

          I say that I can’t bring myself to care about him now, since I’ve already almost                lost him too many times.

All she says is okay.