Heidi Barr

Don’t Call Me Dad

Part 2

 

We drove to Langston Park on Vine Street and Harris, parked and walked to the fountains (where we were going to meet my dad.) My mom said she would go read in the gardens and to come find her when I wanted to leave. I wondered how long she would be willing to read—I was planning on talking to my dad for a long time. We have so much to talk about! She said she would be patient; she was content reading and told me to take as long as I liked.
           

I sat down on the side of the fountain and waited. I had butterflies in my stomach and my palms were sweaty. I could hardly contain my excitement: I wanted to run and jump and scream. I couldn’t believe I was meeting my dad. I was gonna have a dad in my life to look up to, to hang out with—I was gonna have a real man to be proud of me when I made the football team, to stand up and clap for me when I graduate, to see me go to college, and to be a grandpa to my kids someday. I waited anxiously, trying to act normal. My knees bounced up and down and my mouth twitched upward—if I didn’t stop it, I’d be smiling hard. I tried to suppress the urge, but I couldn’t contain my emotions. I fidgeted nervously. Will he recognize me? Will he remember anything about me? Will he tell me what I was like when I was a baby?
           

I looked up. He walked just like me; or maybe I walked just like him. He was coming across the little bridge towards the fountain, towards me. I knew it was him. He walked—not looking up, but not really looking down. He wasn’t smiling. He really didn’t look anxious at all. I was practically popping out of my body I could hardly stand it, but seeing his relaxed, nonchalant demeanor made me shape up and suppress my excitement.
           

He got closer. I could see his broad shoulders, muscular frame—both of which I had inherited—and his height—maybe I’d get that in a few years too. His skin was dark chocolate and his eyes the same light honey as my own. I looked at him and thought I was looking into my future.

“Hey,” he said, “You D’Andre.”
           

“Yeah, that’s me.” I said with a slight grin, trying to holdback the exuberance I really felt. “Hey dad.”
‘Dad,’ I thought, I had never addressed anyone with that word. It rolled off my tongue like it had been sitting at the back of my throat for years just waiting for this moment; the moment I met my real father.

“Don’t call me dad.”

He looked at me, held my gaze. He was serious. My heart dropped. He didn’t really say that, did he? Yes. Yes, he did. His eyes were stone cold, uncompassionate, merciless, full of hardness with no trace of love. My dad, whom I have been dying to meet, dying to talk to, doesn’t want to know me. He wished we had never set up this meeting. He wished he never had to look his mistake in the face. He doesn’t care about me or what’s going on in my life. He wants nothing to do with me.

I walked up to my mom, she was relaxing with her book among the lilies. I watched her lovely eyes scan the pages of her book; she wore a pleasant expression. Her face was full of sweetness and compassion. She loved me; she had stayed with me and raised me even when things were tough, even when he didn’t stay around. I loved her so much, and at this moment I realized how much she meant to me. I would never take her for granted. I didn’t have a dad and now I knew I never would. I didn’t want one anymore: my momma is my queen.