My father hasn’t texted me in over two months. I mean, I guess that’s not all that weird considering we haven’t had the best relationship since he left, but is it wrong of me to be mad at a man for not speaking to me, when I probably wouldn’t reply even if he tried? I guess it’s true what some people say, unfortunately not every man grows up and wants to be a family man. It just gets extra crappy when, at the age of 13, you find out that is exactly how your own father feels.

He isn’t the greatest dad in the world, that’s for sure. He wasn’t around much, which he blamed on work but I think it had more to do with the fact that he enjoyed getting to pretend like I didn’t exist. Of course he loved me, I used to be a regular ole daddy’s girl, but I think he just wasn’t cut out to be a father. He probably should have figured that out before having me. Instead I got to find out the summer before my seventh grade year. But that was five years ago, and I’ve grown up since. I’ve moved on. I’ve forgotten the father I used to look up to. Other than a few texts here and there, I haven’t spoken to my father since the day he moved out. Well, that is, until today.

I walked down the driveway to our mailbox. It was April, but the wind made it feel more like late December. The brand new buds on the trees were hanging on for dear life as a lovely April storm approached. I kind of hoped it would come before I reached the end of the road. I wanted the rain to puddle quickly in the potholes of our beaten up driveway so I could splash in them, and fill my shoes with water like I did when I was a child. I never seemed to grow out of that phase. I reached the mailbox just as the first drops began to fall. I pulled out a stack of seemingly useless bills, no doubt my mom would be happy that those had arrived, when a soft green envelope fell to the ground from among the bunch. I plucked it up from among the weeds, and noticed it was adressed to me. In the upper lefthand corner, in horrid cursive handwriting, it said

Ray Talia and Monica Stappleton (soon to be Talia)
“Oh my God” I dropped the entire pile of mail and sank to the ground, “no. Please no” I said to myself.
My dad was getting married. Oh my god. Just thinking those words made me cringe. What made him think that if he wasn’t happy with a 28 year marriage to my perfect mother, he would be happy to spend a lifetime with the woman who was singlehandedly responsible for ending it? knew it was her. Sure, my father and I haven’t talked in a while, but I know him better than this. He would have called. He would have warned me at least. I opened the envelope. It contained a disgusting picture of my father and that horrible woman holding hands in front of a chalkboard sign that said, in that same horrible handwriting,
Monica and Ray are getting married!
When? May 15th
Where? our own backyard! 32 Wilshire Road, Hazard Kentucky.
We really hope you can come out and watch Ray and Monica join in holy matrimony!
May 15th is only 3 weeks away. What in the hell am I supposed to tell my mother? How am I supposed to tell my mother? Does he really expect me to show up to this? I just don’t understand how he expects me to react to this.
I don’t know Monica, and I don’t intend on ever getting to know her. There isn’t much you need to know about the woman who split your family apart. All I know is that she isn’t my mom. She could never be half the woman my mom is, so I find myself wondering what kind of man would choose her?
I hadn’t even noticed that it was heavily raining. I obviously didn’t feel like splashing in the potholes anymore. I moved one foot, and then the other, and slowly began walking up the driveway to my house. I knew my mother was home, and I knew I would have to tell her, she would find out eventually anyway. I reached my front step and hesitated before I reached for the handle and finally stepped inside.

My foyer was cold. My mom apparently has yet to realize how chilly it is outside. I shut the door quietly enough for my mom not to notice that I had walked in. The house hasn’t changed much since my dad moved out, there was nothing for him to take but his clothes and the record machine I used to listen to while I did my homework but at this moment I noticed the spot on the wall where my parents wedding photo hung. It seemed to be a deeper blue than the rest of the wall. How did I never notice that before?
I could hear my mom in the kitchen. She was washing dishes, and humming along with the music on her ipod. I quietly sat down, not wanting to interrupt her. I just wanted to sit there with her for a while, listen to her sing. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to tell her anymore. The envelope was addressed to me after all… but I know I needed to talk to her, If anything.
“Mom” I said quietly. She didn’t turn around. “Mom!” I screamed, and she jumped.
“Oh my god, Melissa. Are you trying to kill me?” she said laughing.
I laughed with her, I couldn’t help it.
“Mom, something came in the mail… for me, but I wanted to talk about it. It’s from dad, I think. I don’t know why he sent it to m-me..” I was choking back tears. With one envelope, my anger turned to hurt and now I’m crying, which I haven’t done in quite a while.
“What is it hun?” I slid the invitation to her and she turned the envelope over in her hand. I watched it tremble slightly, before a single tear hit the green card-stock with a heartbreaking sound.
“I’m sorry mom. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know If you’d want to know or not and I really wanted to talk to you abou..”
“Mel, it’s okay. I’m glad you showed it to me. I would’ve found out eventually. It’s easier to hear coming from you. Come here, hun.”
I walked to her and hugged her like I used to when I was a kid. We sat on the floor, and she quietly played with my hair until while we both calmed down. There wasn’t much for me to look at on the kitchen floor, so I focused on the fridge. We had this one poem hanging up, my mom’s favorite, written in her handwriting. It was so delicate, written with such care. That’s just how my mom was. I pushed myself up off of the floor, and offered a hand to my mom. I pulled her up and wiped the remaining tears off her cheeks.
“There’s something I have to do really quick.” I said, and grabbed my phone off of the counter. I stepped back outside, and searched through my contacts until I found my dad’s number. It seemed foreign. It had been so long since I had called him, I wasn’t even sure If i remembered exactly how he sounded on the phone. I hit the number, and heard it ring. My stomach churned as it rung one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times before his voicemail picked up. I heard the beep and stopped, frozen. I couldn’t leave a voicemail, but I’d wait for him to call me back.
Two days later, I still hadn’t gotten a call.