Chapter Four
(Evan)
There's a form on my desk with a blank space I've learned to ignore.
Father's Name.
Teachers say it like it's nothing. Like it's just another box to fill in. Like everyone has someone to write there.
I leave it empty every time.
Sometimes I draw a line through it. Sometimes I write N/A. Once, when I was twelve and angry in a way I didn't know how to name, I wrote Doesn't exist and got called into the guidance counselor's office for "concerning behavior."
What's concerning is pretending everyone starts in the same place.
At school, dads show up in button-downs and jackets that cost more than our rent. They clap too loud at games. Yell advice no one asked for. Stand behind their sons like proof that someone had their back before the world could take a swing.
I stand alone.
Or worse, with my mom.
She tries to be invisible, which somehow makes her stand out more. Worn sneakers. Tired eyes. That smile she uses when she wants people to think she's fine.
She waves like she's proud of me.
I wish she wouldn't.
Last year, someone asked if she was my sister.
She laughed. I didn't.
I pretended I didn't hear it, but the heat climbed up my neck and settled there, thick and suffocating. I saw the way my friends looked at her. Not with respect. With curiosity. With pity. With something else I don't want to name.
I told her not to come after that.
She said okay like it didn't matter. Like it didn't carve something out of her.
At lunch, my friend Mark complains about his dad grounding him.
"My old man's such an asshole," he says, shoving fries into his mouth.
I nod like I get it.
I don't.
I don't know what it's like to have someone who sticks around long enough to piss you off. I don't know what it's like to hate someone who actually chose you.
When I get home that night, Mom's in the kitchen, rubbing her lower back like it hurts. She brightens when she sees me anyway.
"There you are, my heart," she says. "How was school?"
I drop my bag harder than I need to. "Fine."
She steps closer, reaching for me like she always does. I step away.
"Can you not?" I snap. "Jesus."
Her hand falls back to her side.
"I'm just asking," she says softly.
"I don't need you asking," I say. "I don't need you doing that sweet voice thing either."
Her mouth opens. Closes.
"I'll start dinner," she says instead.
I watch her turn back to the stove, shoulders slumping just a little, and something tightens in my chest.
I don't say sorry.
I never do.
Because if I say it once, I'll have to say it for everything.
For the nights she cried quietly.
For the jobs she worked herself sick doing.
For the dad I never had and somehow blame her for.
I go to my room and shut the door.
On my desk, the college pamphlets are stacked neatly. Escape plans. Proof that this won't be my life forever.
I stare at them and tell myself this is motivation.
That resentment makes you stronger.
That love makes you weak.
Still, when I hear her coughing through the wall later that night, I turn my music up louder.
Everyone else has a father.
I have silence.
And a mother who loves me too much for it not to feel like a burden.