My dirty little secret.

Countless times I have written these words. Countless times they have
been erased. It is my secret and it is so hard to let it go. It's
funny that I find it so hard to write about because so many people I
know are well aware of this minor fact. Usually things are so much
easier to deal with in writing than they are in life. But here, I
guess they are the same. And if I ever get far enough to select the
keys that will write the words that make up my secret you will think
to yourself, 'now that isn't such a big deal, I was expecting
something better'. That's probably why this has been so long in
coming.

Because, it is my excuse, at least my internal one. The one that I
remind myself of when everything goes so wrong, every time I wish to
wake to a newer life, one that was not so heavily hung with such a
simple burden.

"I thought you always knew. I thought you always knew. I thought you
always knew. I thought you always knew. I though you always knew. I
thought you always knew". Those words, they echo softly behind every
glance, every word, every damnation that he's thrown my way since.

I remember vividly the tears that streamed incessantly down my face.
At eleven years old I had no idea why I was really crying, because at
that point I didn't have the scope necessary to evaluate the
importance of those words. Now, my only regret is that I didn't ask
more questions. I guess I was stupefied by this late night revelation.

When I stepped into the doors of that roller rink on that Friday night
I didn't know that after re-emerging I would feel so differently about
who I was. I remember skating into the dirty bathroom with my friend.
I told her that it was okay. That it didn't matter that the man she
thought was her dad wasn't. I told her that she didn't have to like
him any more or less. She told me she was scared that this man has
always loved her less and that he'll never love her more.

I told her let's go skate one more song. She dried her tears and
painted on a smile.

As I waited for my mom to come, I was all alone. I felt sad for my
friend who didn't know her dad. I climbed in the car and told the
story to my mom.

She looked at me and said the words that seem even more cold now "I
guess you both have something in common then".

Fear must have been written across my face because all she said was,
"I thought you always knew".

All I wanted to do was go home. But my mom, she kept driving. I could
see the outline of Chicago skyline in the distance as we glided over
the deserted road. By homes, closed down little shops, and 24-hour gas
stations. Never had I felt so alone. Never had my world felt so
incomplete. And I was only eleven.

She asked if I wanted to talk. I said no. I was so angry. She told me
about him anyway. I have forgotten most everything except that he
might be living in California and that he owned a dry-cleaning
business.

I did ask her why. She said they had decided that the man that until
very recently I thought was my father, would make another dad.

That was the last time I ever exchanged words about this man with my
mother. The one she had been so quick and sure to keep from my life. I
trust she had her reasons.

Whenever I tell this story to a friend they always ask if I have ever
wanted to meet the man that contributed 50% of my DNA.

The answer is no.
The conscious decision he made to exclude himself from my life tells
me all I need to know.

Besides, going about it would be an impossibility in itself.
It would make things infinitely more complicated.
I don't think my mom would understand.
And I think it would hurt the man who has tried so hard to be my father.
As easy as it is to hate him and as easy as it to judge him for his faults.
He is the one that stuck around.

So my secret, it really is neither dirty or little.