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The worst thing is, he was the hero of your story when you were younger.
--
Even asks about it sometimes, after a dinner at this parents – whom you love, and who love you. It doesn’t feel conditional with them. They think Even a good judge of character and they trust him. And dinner with them is where they have given you a voice to speak, where they listen with intent and ask questions. They’re interested.
It’s not something you’re used to.
Neither is it something Even can relate to. With such parents, the story of your parents is a distant fable.
But he asks about it sometimes. Whether you’d want to meet up with your father again.
You say no – each time.
No. He doesn’t deserve it.
--
He was your hero once. He dressed up in suits every morning, gave you a lift to school and dropped you off with a pat on the shoulder – and you, focused on the friends on the curb, yelled your goodbyes quickly and left the car.
Your dad’s cool, they say and you’d agree. My dad is superimportant, he’s supergood at this work, you’d think. Even at the cost of him not always being there when you got back from school, even when your mother’d say I’m sorry he’s late again, Isak – even when he missed your birthday for the second year in a row.
He’s got an important job, mum. It’s okay. I’m okay with doing this with you.
A PlayStation arrived four days late with a card wishing you a happy 15th birthday.
--
Your mum barely moved from her spot on the couch for the next week. When you sat with her to get her to eat, she brushed her fingers through your hair with a soft smile.
--
You love Even, with all of your heart, you do. There’s no one in the world you’d rather spend your days, your bed or your life with. Not at this point anyway. But just as you don’t really understand the trials and tribulations of a life with bipolar disorder, he doesn’t understand your relationship with your father. Not that you talk about it with him a lot.
You envy the relationship Even has with his dad, sometimes. His dad taught him to cook, sitting down every day with him after school. Even now, Even hangs out with his dad on Sunday evenings sometimes just because. Just to talk.
They talk. Your father sends presents.
A sign of ‘hey – we’re family by the way’.
You’re not sure if his definition of family can be found in a dictionary.
--
At first it’s just the kind of person Even is, someone who wants to let you live your life free from the burden of the past. You understand why he’s asking you to meet with your dad. But he keeps on dropping hints whenever your father sends you some money.
And in all reality, it doesn’t happen often. And you know it’s not always intentional. But Even has a look in his eyes, that pitying look – a look that shows what he really thinks of you: a horrible – terrible son, someone who’s not willing to move past; someone ungrateful, someone who is stuck at age sixteen.
At age sixteen is when the hero of your story became your villain.
--
Mum hadn’t been able to leave the house in over two weeks, stuck inside her own head and listening to something that had never been there. You can’t even remember a time where your mother hadn’t been plagued by something invisible, something invincible, but you do remember the times you spent at her bedside watching her sleep because she asked you to. She was scared someone would take her away otherwise.
Religion had not always been her comfort. At one time, she’d been laughing at preachers on television, calling them delusional. Now she is. Her mother, your grandmother, died a year and a half ago and your mother was lost. Lost in grief for her mother who died in terrible pain and didn’t recognise her own daughter anymore. Lost, with a husband who looked at her with fear in his eyes; and a boy she’d have to protect from the voices that told her he was unsaveable. God was the only way.
In all fairness, your mother was scary. She’d never harm you, but she did strange things. It was hard to live with sometimes, but you’d never leave.
You’d never leave her.
Never.
But he did.
--
One night, Even mentions getting a text from your dad to say he was back in Oslo, saying that he couldn’t reach you because you’d presumably blocked him. You did.
Even’s news instigates a swell of fury in you you hadn’t felt in a long while. How dare he. How dare he.
How dare he, how dare he contact you. Why does he have your number anyway?
To his credit, Even owns up immediately – honestly telling him that he met his dad in a shop once and he had asked to exchange numbers. Just in case.
You can understand. You understand why he did; but the emotions in you tell you to move away. To walk, to run from your apartment and get anywhere but here.
Even knows this. He asks you to stay. To stay with him and talk to him. And his eyes show you again how bad of a son you are; how sad he is for you and how easily this could be fixed.
It infuriates you.
Fine, you say, you want to know everything.
My father doesn’t exist to me. He accepts me for what I am, sure, and he gives me everything he thinks I could hope for. Because that’s how he communicates; by using money, by working working working working and never showing up. By not talking at all.
I would have given everything for him to have shown up and stayed. I just wanted my dad to be there. But he left instead.
He left. He left.
He left her.
He left her.
He left ME.
I WAS SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.
HE LEFT ME BEHIND.
--
Your father couldn’t deal with her. She’d been unable to attend his business meetings as his wife for years now. It frustrated him that she wouldn’t get up; he was embarrassed to have to make excuses every single time. He sighed whenever she told him the wildest tales the voices told her and never listened.
Until that moment.
The moment she threatened to kill herself, he ran.
You will never forget the look in eyes.
Your dad. Your hero.
A fucking coward.
--
It’s all out. While you haven’t thrown stuff or punched stuff, your fists are tightly clenched.
Even’s looking at you, eyes unwavering.
You can’t reconcile with your dad because he left your mum and you behind for a mental illness he couldn’t deal with.
Deep, deep down – you’re scared that he left an impression on you by doing so. That you’d leave Even too, eventually, because you’re a coward – like he ingrained that in you.
You don’t want to be. You want to be there for Even, just like he is there for you.
As he is right now, slowly moving towards you and softly touching your hands; untangling them little by little because he knows they’re hurting right now.
You want to be with him because he apologises, holding your hands and looking you straight in the eye. You might’ve been a little unfair to him too, because his eyes didn’t tell you you were a bad son. It’s because you wanted to see that in his eyes, to punish you for being so resolute and unkind. You apologise too.
No, he says, you don’t have to. You’re protecting yourself and you have every right.
It’s all you needed to hear, moving more and more closely towards him; resting your head against his. You just breathe.
And you stay.
--
Maybe you’re the hero of your story.