I thought their love for me and for each other was endless. I had so many treasured memories of the three of us together—my father in his easy chair, my mother on his lap, and me on the floor, beaming and taking it all in. That was when we were poor and content to be so.
But for a week and a half, we were rich. My father had had incredible fortune in the stock market—enough to earn us millions of dollars—and then lost it just as quickly and abruptly as he had earned it.
For days, my father lay on the couch as if in a daze, staring at the ceiling. He never said anything, never ate anything, just lay there staring at that ceiling. My mother at first tried to encourage him, but—when that proved to be obviously futile—took to moping about the house, cooking meals and burning them, placidly poking here and there.
This went on for many weeks. The days were prolonged times of miseries. The future held nothing bright.
One morning, I slumped downstairs and the couch was empty. I jumped up, and yelled for my mother, but she already knew: he had gone to work for the first time in weeks.
Looking back now, I wish my father had never moved from the couch. When he was in the depths of despair, at least his body was with us. Soon, we didn’t even have that.
What replaced my father’s listlessness was a madness, a madness that was overwhelming. He left early in the morning and came back very late—sometimes not at all. I never saw him—even on the weekends he was gone at work.
My mother’s hair began to gray; her eyes were bloodshot from sitting up all night, awaiting her husband’s return, only to face the dawn with him still gone. She walked with a slouch now, her proud posture abandoned. My mother never told me this, but I could tell that she blamed my father’s everlasting absence on herself.
Early one Saturday morning, I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I wandered downstairs and was surprised to see my mother sitting at the table, snoring softly. She had obviously sat up all night again, awaiting my father. She awoke with a start, and smiled faintly at me. Her eyes were rimmed with the red and gray of exhaustion, shimmering with tears and filled with a deep wound that none of my hugs could heal. I doubt all the love in the world could have healed her.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
My mother turned tear-filled eyes to gaze upon me. “Jerry,” she said in a choked voice. She brushed my hair back and planted a wavering kiss on my brow. “Jerry—be very proud of your father. He is—he is trying—to do—what’s best...for us.” Her voice cracked, and tears began flowing, sobs shaking her frail body.
I stood there mutely. I wished I could hug my mother, but her pain seemed too deep, too raw. Anything I did would make it worse.
She didn’t cry long, but it was bitter—oh, so bitter. When she stopped, she pushed herself up, blew her nose and took a deep breath. Then she said, “We’re going to your father’s work.” She seemed to be convincing herself. “Yes. We are. He should be home Saturday.” Her eyes lit up, and she said to me, “Hang on a moment,” and hurried upstairs.
I sat down, bewildered. I poured myself a bowl of old cheap cereal and ate it slowly, savoring the sickly sweet taste. It was half-an-hour before my mother came back down.
She had dressed into a nice, crisp outfit, and had curled her hair. Her circles had disappeared under the magic of dense concealer. For the first time in months, she had put makeup on. She was beautiful, but not because of the things she had done to her body, to her hair, to her eyes; but because of the hope that was shining from her face after a long sleep.
“I’m ready.” She smiled and held out her hand. I took it, and we climbed into the car and began our way to his work. We reached it in about twenty minutes. It was a long, low building. There was a spring in my mother’s step as she helped me out of the car.
I followed my mother into the building, feeling somewhat wary—I didn’t know why.
We wove our way between the empty cubicles—not many people came on Saturday. Then a curious noise reached my ears. It sounded like a fish sucking the top of the water, shuffling for food. My mother froze as she looked around a corner. Everything slid off her face, making it like a blank canvass—a canvass full of pain yet somehow utterly empty.
I peeked around her, and I too felt my heart stop.
My father was there, his legs and arms and body entangled with a young blonde woman’s. If I wasn’t so shocked, and if it wasn’t my father kissing her, I would have laughed, for it looked like he was eating her face off and she was eating his. My mother gave a strangled scream, and my father—who looked just as handsome and young as ever—resurfaced, and gazed in blank shock at his wife and son.
In moments when I am scared or very, very angry, I notice things. Little things. I noticed my father’s ring was gone, and I knew without looking my mother’s was still on her finger. I noticed the woman seemed completely comfortable with my father, meaning it wasn’t the first time he had touched her. I noticed that my father’s arm tightened around the lovely woman, as if protecting her or hiding her.
With a start, I realized how drab my mother must look compared to this woman. My mother—despite her efforts—was old and gray. This woman was young and blonde. My mother hadn’t had a waistline in years, and this woman’s body was slender and athletic. My mother had wrinkles, this woman had the smoothest skin I had ever seen.
After a long moment of silence, the young woman broke out of my father’s embrace. Her ivory cheeks were scarlet, her beautiful eyes guilty. “See you around, Nicholas,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“No.” My mother’s eyes shone with tears. “Jerry and I are leaving anyway.” She took my arm and turned to leave. I wrenched it out of her grasp and glared at my father.
“She waited! Every night she sat up at the kitchen table, watching the clock, waiting for you! She believed in you. I believed in you.” I felt myself get angrier and angrier. “I used to be proud of my dad.” Why was I crying? Didn’t I hate him? Despite my sobs, I continued talking. “Remember the days when we used to play baseball? Remember the days when we would watch movies together and you would tease me about the girls at school?” I knuckled the angry tears away. “Remember when you used to tuck me in at night?” The memories were too painful. I rushed on. “Who are you?!” I screamed. “I don’t know you anymore!” I felt so angry and hurt that I couldn’t hold back the next words, even if I wanted too. “I hate you!”
I was glad to see the hurt that crossed my father’s face. I was glad to see his eyes fill with tears. I was glad. I wanted to make him hurt, just like he made my mother and me hurt.
“Go away! Never talk to us again!” My voice dropped and I repeated, “I hate you.”
Then I took my mother’s arm and walked away.

I didn’t see him for ten years. I never knew if he moved or if he stayed. My mother and him never had an official divorce, and to this day, she still has his ring on her finger. My mother went to work, and we managed to keep the house. We scraped by.
It was Christmas, when I was twenty three years old. My mother’s hair was completely white now, her face wrinkled and lined. I had found my first premature gray hair that morning.
I had next to no money in my pocket, but I was wondering aimlessly through the streets, looking through the windows in search of a gift for my mother. I knew I couldn’t buy anything, but I just wanted to look.
My memories were especially close and painful that day. Despite all the years, my hatred of my father had never ceased. It made me bitter and hard and unwilling to form relationships. It began snowing. The snow fell in large thick flakes, but I paid them no heed.
Up ahead was a bench. It was empty except for one man. My legs ached, so I sat on the far end. I didn’t acknowledge my bench-partner, but merely stared out into the empty night, and could feel tears sting my eyes.
With a shock, I realized the man beside me was crying. For the first time, I peered at him, trying to see who he was. He was African-American with a gray beard. Tears glistened on his wet cheeks, his chocolate eyes old and weary. He met my gaze, and I knew he needed to talk.
“Mister. Mister, can Ah tell yoo mah sins? Ah’m an old man, a homeless man, a dyin’ man. Can Ah tell yoo my sins?”
I was taken aback. I could see no easy alternative but to listen to this man’s sins. I nodded.
“Ah had a beootiful wife, an’ a beootiful daugh’er. Bu’ Ah had an argooment wiff mah wife. An’ Ah lef’ her.” He trailed off and covered his face with his hands. It was several minutes before he could speak, but once he was able to, he said, “Ah—Ah found ano’her, an’ Ah lay wiff her. I returned too mah wife, an’ she found out—‘bout—‘bout wha’ Ah did.” He cried harder. It was unnerving to see a grown man cry. “Ah’m an evil man—an evil man. God forgive mah, Ah ‘aven’t seen my beau’iful wife, my beau’iful daugh’er, in thir’y years.”
I could not speak. I did not know what to say.
After that night, I viewed my father differently. For the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he regretted leaving my mother and me.
Maybe he still thought about us and wept like the old dying man had wept.
But God had given me a gift that night—one of forgiveness. I am able to think about my father without bitterness to this day.
My life has been a cycle of endless love and endless sorrow, but I know without a doubt that the love in my life—the love God feels for me, the love my mother feels for me—defeats the sorrow of sin, overcomes it forever and ever.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.02.2010

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