changed the lock and I donât need to return the keys. He assures me that there will be no more unequal treatment.
In 1990 my mother leaves the publicity agency where sheâs worked since 1984 and opens a graphic design studio.
In 1990 the friend my father met in Brazil goes away on a trip and I see my father a number of times. One afternoon I introduce him to a friend Iâve fooled around with a time or two and whom Iâve tried to steer in his direction. Shortly afterward my friend tells me that theyâre having a clandestine affair, and a few days later, in need of an alibi, itâs my father who brings me up to date. The friend he met in Brazil suspects, and heâs given me as the unlikely excuse for his constant absences. At one point he asks me to call her and confirm that heâs with me; at another point itâs she who calls in tears to try to get information out of me. Meanwhile, when these difficulties cause the relationship to languish, one night I run into my fatherâs lover and we end up in bed. I canât relax, Iâm beset by a kind of vague remorse, but I let her fellate me and in the morning I penetrate her briefly.
In 1990 I travel to Russia by train. When I return by plane, my mother and my father are waiting for me at the airport. My mother is eager to see me, and my father canât wait to hear what I have to tell. That same evening, back at home, I take a phone call in front of both of them from a Russian woman, and my father makes fun of me when he hears me call her âlove.â
From 1984 to 1990 and for years to come, the feelings are all the same; nothing changes.
I live with my mother. I see her morning, noon, and night. Sheâs the one who pays for my education, who clothes me, feeds me. Sheâs the one who notices when I lack something, who comes up with solutions and tries to grant my wishes. Sheâs the one who teaches me how to behave in public, who sets me on the right path, who convinces me otherwise when I announce that I donât want to go to college. Very little that happens to me goes unnoticed by her. Sheâs the one who straightens me out, who rallies me when I need it, and I do the same for her when I can. We face setbacks together, without help. My father isnât around; my father is an intermittent presence. My father creates capsules of time outside of daily life. If I manage to get past his defenses, I can share my worries with him, but without his knowing what my life is really like and without the fortification of material assistance, his advice is out of place, inadequate. I donât even grant him the authority to offer it to me in the first place. Most of the time I donât ask for it. I keep him at armâs length.
Bitterness and resentment plague me constantly. What do I blame him for? For everything. For not seeing me enough, not calling enough, not remembering my birthday, not giving me presents, for vanishing when he knows that my mother and I are in trouble, for spending the summers away and traveling when I donât get to, for failing to keep his promises, for believing that he has more cause for complaint than I do, for thinking that this excuses him, for settling, for presuming that I should accept his capitulation, for seeing me in secret, for giving me things in secret, for giving me money in secret, for thinking that his love is enough, for removing himself from the picture, for delegating everything that concerns me to my mother, for not setting himself up as an alternative to her, for giving me no option, for letting my mother be the sole center of my little life.
Though he does make some effort. Impulsive efforts that he almost always abandons. Heâs aware of the problem between us and heâs jealous of the preference I show for my mother, but he isnât able to put things right. The same old strategies donât work anymore. He tries to have me come and visit him, but I feel
In 1990 my mother leaves the publicity agency where sheâs worked since 1984 and opens a graphic design studio.
In 1990 the friend my father met in Brazil goes away on a trip and I see my father a number of times. One afternoon I introduce him to a friend Iâve fooled around with a time or two and whom Iâve tried to steer in his direction. Shortly afterward my friend tells me that theyâre having a clandestine affair, and a few days later, in need of an alibi, itâs my father who brings me up to date. The friend he met in Brazil suspects, and heâs given me as the unlikely excuse for his constant absences. At one point he asks me to call her and confirm that heâs with me; at another point itâs she who calls in tears to try to get information out of me. Meanwhile, when these difficulties cause the relationship to languish, one night I run into my fatherâs lover and we end up in bed. I canât relax, Iâm beset by a kind of vague remorse, but I let her fellate me and in the morning I penetrate her briefly.
In 1990 I travel to Russia by train. When I return by plane, my mother and my father are waiting for me at the airport. My mother is eager to see me, and my father canât wait to hear what I have to tell. That same evening, back at home, I take a phone call in front of both of them from a Russian woman, and my father makes fun of me when he hears me call her âlove.â
From 1984 to 1990 and for years to come, the feelings are all the same; nothing changes.
I live with my mother. I see her morning, noon, and night. Sheâs the one who pays for my education, who clothes me, feeds me. Sheâs the one who notices when I lack something, who comes up with solutions and tries to grant my wishes. Sheâs the one who teaches me how to behave in public, who sets me on the right path, who convinces me otherwise when I announce that I donât want to go to college. Very little that happens to me goes unnoticed by her. Sheâs the one who straightens me out, who rallies me when I need it, and I do the same for her when I can. We face setbacks together, without help. My father isnât around; my father is an intermittent presence. My father creates capsules of time outside of daily life. If I manage to get past his defenses, I can share my worries with him, but without his knowing what my life is really like and without the fortification of material assistance, his advice is out of place, inadequate. I donât even grant him the authority to offer it to me in the first place. Most of the time I donât ask for it. I keep him at armâs length.
Bitterness and resentment plague me constantly. What do I blame him for? For everything. For not seeing me enough, not calling enough, not remembering my birthday, not giving me presents, for vanishing when he knows that my mother and I are in trouble, for spending the summers away and traveling when I donât get to, for failing to keep his promises, for believing that he has more cause for complaint than I do, for thinking that this excuses him, for settling, for presuming that I should accept his capitulation, for seeing me in secret, for giving me things in secret, for giving me money in secret, for thinking that his love is enough, for removing himself from the picture, for delegating everything that concerns me to my mother, for not setting himself up as an alternative to her, for giving me no option, for letting my mother be the sole center of my little life.
Though he does make some effort. Impulsive efforts that he almost always abandons. Heâs aware of the problem between us and heâs jealous of the preference I show for my mother, but he isnât able to put things right. The same old strategies donât work anymore. He tries to have me come and visit him, but I feel
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