Meeting my Father.

 

 

My mom always used to take us kids out for rides. This was, I guess, what you could call our family entertainment. Very seldom was it at all enjoyable.

Most of the time, she would be intoxicated. A high rate of speed and swerving on the road were very scary. She would take us to the cemetery, let us out, and then take off.

She seemed to enjoy showing us children how fast a '72 Nova could go. I remember on multiple occasions begging her to stop because I was scared.

We ended up in a ditch on more than one occasion. One particular time, the highway patrol arrested her, and my grandma came to our rescue.

Sometimes we would end up at the local truck stop. I don't remember a lot about the truck stop. I do remember playing Elvis Presley on the little jukebox.

One particular night, when I think I was 10, we went for our normal family outing. This time, she was sober, and we drove straight to the truck stop.

We pulled up beside a pickup truck that had two men in it. My mom told me, "All right, you little bastard, it's time to meet your father."

Not only was I going to meet my father for the first time, but she had also set it up for him to take me to go live with him. I don't even think she sent me with any extra clothes.

One of the men in that pickup truck was my father, and the other one was his brother—complete strangers to me. They lived 120 miles north of St. Joseph, Missouri.

I am now in shock. I am sitting in the middle of two grown men driving up the interstate. I'm headed to a place of the unknown. I am crying.

I already had anger and resentment toward my father. I knew he abandoned me when I was four days old. I knew he was at the hospital when I was raped and abandoned me again.

I have been an unwanted child since before I was born. Rumor has it I was extremely close to being an abortion.