In the name of the Father (ManxMan) | the Wattys | The Wattpad Awards 2013

Chapter 0 - Emotional baggage and packed lunch

Chapter 0 – Emotional baggage and packed lunch

“Jake, son, listen … he loves me. He takes care of us … give him a chance would you, please?”

“But dad … of all the things you … you’re sleeping with a guy my age. Yeah sure he takes care of us, but what will people think when you or him … and I don’t like it when you and … ugh!”

“Why can’t you just be happy for your father, huh? Ever since your mother died—”

“Dad! I honestly think … what were you thinking when you picked him up from—”

With sagged shoulders, eyes moved to tears, and a sinking heart, I shrugged off the heavy feeling that I was the topic of yet another unpleasant conversation. To be the subject of a heated squabble between father and son was a normal everyday occurrence in this household. Yet the scene would still hit home every time I hear myself in their story. I never once heard the narrative end with a happy ending. I prayed in hopeful silence that one day my fairytale would reach it’s happily ever after. But most French fairytales I grew up with ended gray, not colorful.

My mind had gotten used to it by now yet my heart would still sink every time I hear my name. I would stand behind these thick walls each time, gleaning for information. The walls would feel so thin the minute Jake talks about how pitiful and unwelcomed I am. I played a personal role in their lives. I was part of their story, and my character was very close to being burned at the stake.

Their voices dissipated as I quietly peeled myself off the immaculate white wall. I felt so undeserving of its spotless color. The more steps I took away from it the lower Jeanne and Jake’s voices became. The words they exchanged were like needles, the pin cushion my poor heart.

I treaded lightly towards the modern kitchen to get busy. Jeanne would be off in a few. He had so much riding on his shoulders judging from yesterday’s news. I didn’t know the inner workings of his job, but I knew that he did it professionally. What bothered me the most was that he rarely ate regularly these past few days, for he’d always attend to matters left and right without taking a moment to actually stop and take care of himself. I needed to have his food and medications ready for the day so I made haste. I felt a pang in my chest as my memories played the script between father and son. If only I could be the scriptwriter, then maybe there’d be less drama.

Jake is of my age. We’re both twenty-five, and yet he and I had this generation gap. Initially he thought I’d be this brother figure, seeing that I appeared to have been adopted by his father, which was weird because who would be in their right mind to want to adopt a grown man? The thought pissed him off to no end. That same attitude turned to wrath when he knew I was more.

He didn’t really like me the minute I came into their residence. Okay, scratch that flawed description … it’s a mansion, an estate, not just a domicile. Their family came from a lineage that knew and understood the difference between fast-food eating and gourmet dining. They were rich. So rich that the house they lived in is a captioned photo in most news articles. I couldn’t blame the paparazzi armed with their glitter bombs because the abode is magnificent and it held so much political history. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would be like to grow up in a house like this. Having ones privacy become public property was a corporate dilemma shared by the rich and wealthy. I often wondered how Jeanne’s family kept appearances for years without losing their identity. It must’ve been hard to be fully clothed yet feel naked.

Footsteps came behind me, heavy ones. The distribution of weight on each foot gliding against the matte-tiled floor made the beating organ that pumped blood inside my chest to ache, squeeze, and tighten. I froze, steeled my spine, and balled my fists as my heart raced. He circled the ceramic food isle, careful not to be in close proximity to my personal space. He sat himself down on a granite barstool opposite mine. The separating column wasn’t enough to barricade the obvious tension that was radiating off of him in waves. This was one of many awkward mornings we shared together. Awful. His hands went to mouth, picking on the food like an orc.

I sighed heavily and arranged my thoughts with careful tact, “That’s your father’s, Jake. I put yours in the carry-on. I—” He abruptly stood and left. I felt like an unwanted orphan. I felt so abandoned. I felt like a dejected child. One whose hopes and dreams would never reach fruition.

Tears fell. I didn’t know what it was that made me cry. Was it his disapproval of me, or did he see me as a poor candidate to replace his mother? Who was I kidding? The choices all mean the same in the end. At the end of it all, he just didn’t like me. That was it. No thinking needed.

I kept crying as I held the chef’s knife with my right and a bulbous onion in my left. I was peeling, chopping, and weeping. What I was preparing to cook was a recipe worth a river of tears. I hated onions. I let my thoughts simmer as I chopped more shallots for tonight’s stew.