Samuel Ares

Father; Father

         Some important things about me that you may like knowing are:
   •I was adopted when I was 8 years old, to a gay couple.
   •Since that's not exactly allowed here, we keep it secret and claim they're just best friends.. Which gets less and less believable everyday.
   •I also have an adopted brother named Jameson, who's around 2½ years younger than me.
   •He's 13, I'm 15 currently.
   •I work to help my family a bit. I write stories for the papers that I tend to put blood sweat and tears into
   • I have another adopted brother and sister living with me, but they aren't as important here.
   •Their names: Beverly (he's 13 like Jameson) and Venus (She's 4.)
         My dad is great. He's soft, and very nice to me. The best dad I could wish for. And as for my Papa, he's a little more strict, but I suppose some strictness is needed around here. As you read on, this may be hard to believe, but I don't hate my Pa. I just disagree with him on things.
         Jameson really likes Pa though. They play violin together, Jameson never gets in trouble by him so of course he likes him. Unfortunately, me and Beverly are always receiving concequences for stupid things, while Venus and Jameson (the two youngest) are always being seen as little angels. 
         As I sat in my bedroom, staring at the stuffed animal Jameson had handed me, my dad came into the room.
       "Samuel?" he asked. I looked up at him and he smiled toward me. He took a seat next to me and looked at the bear I was holding.
         "Jameson told me you found something important?" said he, examining me, then the bear, then me again.
         "Jameson is a little tattle tale that assumes everything he wants to assume," I replied, getting a little glare from Dad.
         "Jameson is your brother and wanted me to know because he cares for you." The thought of Jameson actually worrying over me was hard to picture. He seems to always be worried about his own problems, he's not the type of person to stop and wonder how someone else is feeling, unless it may turn into revenge against him.
         "Well... Whatever." I gave him the bear and let him look closer at it. Then, he left the room for a moment, came back with a needle, a threat, and a piece of light brown fabric. He sewed a piece of fabric over the belly of the bear to create a patch of lighter fur on its tummy. When he was done, he gave it back and said:
         "You seem to remember things when you look at this bear.. So I put my own piece onto it. Maybe you can look at it now and not only remember where you've been, but also where you are now. I won't leave you, I promise you that." I felt relief but also anger and jealousy toward how he always knew what to say to make his children happy and relaxed. He'd taken me into a hug and set the bear aside.
         "What's his name?" he spoke after a moment.
         "Marcy."
         "What made you think of that name?"
         "My mother's name.."
         His eyes drifted to the floor in front of his feet and he nodded, analysing everything in his mind. He then stood up and went to my papa, who was standing in the doorway.
         "You didn't need to listen in on that," I derided. 
         "Maybe I did. Don't I know my son a little more than I did before I heard that?"
         I didn't say anything else. I only nodded. 
         My father has the right to know everything, since he gave me everything.