Daddy Deception

I called my father.

That wasn’t exactly easy for me to do. I hate him. He is the root of my entire psychological trauma. He is a psychopath, a stalker, abusive and alcoholic-drug addict.

I called my father.

I needed money. My food stamps were getting low and I’m out of gas. I tried to talk to my mother about it and she didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of my situation. She started lecturing me on taking care of my bills, getting back into school and getting a job. I hung up the phone and scrolled through my contact list, feeling desperate. There at the end I saw his name. So I did it.

I called my father.

He was reluctant to talk. I don’t blame him. It had been two years since I’d gone into hiding to get away from him. I knew he’d been hunting for my mother and I’m pretty sure he’d been hunting for me. Now I was calling him.
He had to be wondering why.

I came right out with it. “I’m in trouble. I need a loan.”

“What’s wrong, Ogy?” he asked, using a nickname from my childhood. I cringed.

“I’m out of work, out of food and out of gas.”

“How much do you need?” he asked. I felt my heart leap to my throat. Was this really going to work?

“Just a couple hundred bucks, just to get me through.” I answered.

“What about your mom?” he asked. I knew a leading question when I heard one.

I answered carefully. “We’re not on good terms.”

“I think you should patch things up with her. She’s more financially sound.”
he said, equally carefully.

“Look,” I snapped, “If you can’t help me just say so.” I began to shut my phone.