Mommy, I Don’t Need You:
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 7

And then there was Dad. I honestly have no idea where he came from or when I first saw him. But what I do remember clearly is that he was Dad, and that meant I had to love him with all my heart.


Who the hell was this Dad, anyway? Where did he even live? I remember his voice because I called him a lot. Just like I’d constantly hang up on my mom's friends from the phone book, I’d do the same to him. Who the hell taught me how to dial a phone? Who gave me his number? And, most importantly, why the hell did he talk to me? No idea.

I had to stand on a little stool because I couldn’t reach the phone, which was on a shelf. People usually sat on that stool, but I was allowed to stand. I’d pick up the receiver and dial the numbers from memory on that old rotary phone. First, you’d dial one number, and the wheel would sloooowly turn back into place. Then the next number, and so on, all seven of them. The waiting was pure torture. After a while, I figured out that you could just push the wheel back into place yourself, which saved about 7 seconds.

What we actually talked about, I have no clue. But I remember his voice — it was super young, and somehow friendly. What could I have told him? Probably something about toys or that I ate something.

There was this one time — we were visiting relatives. Big dinner, all the usual stuff. I’m on the phone with Dad again. My mom grabs the receiver and snaps, “Stop calling him!” I start crying because I really, really wanted to talk to Dad.

I run into the kitchen, where there’s a cloud of cigarette smoke, and I scream at my mom, “You never loved Dad!” I have no idea where those words came from. It’s kind of funny now! Maybe I heard something like that from the TV, which was always on at Grandpa’s house.

But I still remember how desperate I felt in that moment — Mom never loved Dad, it was all a lie, and I was lying too. Because on TV, kids come from love, not lies.
Mom's boyfriend, Lesha, totally flipped out, started pacing around the room. I hated him.

Honestly, when I think about myself as a kid, I don’t picture this happy little kid playing, running around, and talking non-stop. I was quiet because I wasn’t allowed to do anything. All I feel when I think about my childhood is this overwhelming loneliness. Like I was always alone, just me and my little kid dreams. And those dreams? Always about my mom and dad. But not the ones I had, the "big" ones. We’d all live together in a big apartment, always playing, and just being happy. Where the hell did those dreams come from? That image of a perfect family just sort of formed in my head.

Anyway, I called Dad a lot — so I guess we had some pretty good conversations. At the time, our long-distance relationship was great. But as the years went by, the distance just kept growing.

Of course, later on, I’ll have memories of meeting him in person, but for now, Dad’s just this guy in a wedding photo, standing there in a suit, curly hair and a mustache, with Mom crying next to him.

A wedding’s a one-time thing, and neither of them ever remarried after that.


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