Let me pretend that on Sunday afternoons my dad would relax into the driver\u2019s seat of our rusty Ford Mustang with one callused hand draped outside the rolled-down window and the other over the steering wheel as we made our way to Bellwoods Park for a picnic. That he stole boyish glances at my mom, who sat upright in excitement while in the passenger seat applying her shimmery pink lipstick. Pretend that they spoke softly as they reminisced about their youth back home and laughed so hard and so effortlessly it felt like the entire car floated. That I sat in the backseat, pressing my five-year-old thighs together, then watched as I slowly peeled them apart while my older sister punched her bony knuckles into my shoulder and yelled,\u00a0punch buggy no punch backs.<\/p>\n
Let me pretend that my dad only drank water or soda or coffee. That he hung up his work uniform to break in a tailored suit for my high school graduation. That he clapped too loudly when I walked across the stage to collect my rolled-up diploma, and that he confidently shook hands with my teachers even though he struggled to speak English. That I was mortified when he hoisted a VHS\u00a0camcorder onto his shoulder, but was later grateful to see grainy footage of me with a bad perm that had burned the back of my neck, and wearing a white, puffy-sleeved dress that made me look like a bride. Pretend I was sandwiched between my proud mom and gleeful sister as we smiled and awkwardly waved at the shaky camera.<\/p>\n
Let me pretend my dad interviewed every boy I brought home. That he stared straight into their eyes until they got the message. Pretend he taught me how to pick those with good manners and even better intentions. That because of this, I never lay on the couch, broken hearted, for weeks.<\/p>\n
Let me pretend that my dad didn’t storm our house, kick our front door until it caved in, nor did he stab it with a steak knife. That my sister didn\u2019t pace the hallway, head down and shaking. That as I peered outside, barefoot and confused, the police officer hadn\u2019t noticed me. That his expression hadn\u2019t turned from one of relaxed indifference to one of concentrated sadness that froze my veins. Pretend I didn\u2019t see my mom holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth, and that I never heard her say, he\u2019s going to kill us, he\u2019s going to kill us.<\/p>\n
Let me pretend.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
and I believe him, or at least I pretend to, because I\u2019m used to making excuses for the wrong people to stay, just like my mother did when she lied and said she\u2019d made the strawberry cheesecake for her boyfriend when she\u2019d actually bought it at the Nova Era bakery, then later purchased her own engagement ring to make his proposal better than it was, and eventually paid off his debts when he died even though they\u2019d been a surprise, and afterwards she cried and cried because that\u2019s what widows are supposed to do, and I cried and cried because that\u2019s what stepdaughters are taught to do, until his absence started to feel better than his presence; however, I never said this out loud because mourners aren\u2019t supposed to be happy or feel relieved, and even though I felt both, I hadn\u2019t learned my lesson yet because I found someone who also liked sweets, barely acknowledged my birthdays, and kept his finances hidden, and still I ignored these similarities because he made dinner, lingered in the morning, and planned beyond tomorrow, but he stayed too long and I stayed too long and I didn\u2019t admit that I enjoy meals for one, prefer quiet mornings, and didn\u2019t need someone to tell me what to do next weekend or next year, and if I could just trust myself enough, then I wouldn\u2019t have to look at his sloppy smile when he finished his second bottle of wine, and be able to look at myself in the mirror without flinching, because when he always says he hates that he has to work late and then tiptoes inside when he thinks I\u2019m asleep and lies his head on the pillows, her perfume drifts to meet me, and I swear it smells like strawberries, and tastes like freedom.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Let me pretend that my dad didn’t storm our house, kick our front door until it caved in, nor did he stab it with a steak knife. That as I peered outside, barefoot and confused, the police officer hadn\u2019t noticed me. Pretend I didn\u2019t see my mom holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth, and that I never heard her say, he\u2019s going to kill us, he\u2019s going to kill us.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21211,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3529],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20764","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-flash-nonfiction","writer-marilyn-duarte"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20764","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20764"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20764\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21212,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20764\/revisions\/21212"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21211"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20764"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20764"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20764"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}