Father finds you jerking off stories
He was young. Way too young. My father was not a musician and neither a famous person. He was gone when I was young, and I learned what a funeral was because of him. I was 8 and half, old enough to miss him for a lifetime. I would feel no pain. And I had a father. I had a father who was both firm and fun.
Someone who would tell a joke before grounding me. Someone who kissed me on the forehead before I went to sleep. A habit which I passed on to my children. Someone who forced me to support the same football team he supported, and who explained things better than my mother. Do you know what I mean? A father like that is someone to be missed. He never told me he was going to die. Next year would be an amazing year. We lived the same dream.
He was a superstitious man. Thinking about the future was the way he found to keep hope alive. The bastard made me laugh until the very end. He knew about it. And suddenly, the next year was over before it even started. My mother picked me up at school and we went to the hospital. The doctor told the news with all the sensitivity that doctors lose over the years. My mother cried. She did have a tiny bit of hope.
As I said before, everyone does. I felt the blow. What does it mean?
I hated you, dad. I felt betrayed. I screamed with anger in the hospital, until I realized my father was not around to ground me. I cried.
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Then, my father was once again a father to me. With a shoebox under her arm, a nurse came by to comfort me. The box was full of sealed envelopes, with sentences where the address should be. The nurse then handed me a letter. The only letter that was out of the box. He spent the whole week writing these, and he wants you read it. Be strong. I opened it.
I knew I was going to die. Well, as you can see, I still have a lot to teach you.
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So I wrote these letters for you. You must not open them before the right moment, OK? This is our deal. I love you. Take care of your mom. Love, dad. He made me stop crying with his bad handwriting. Printing was not easy back then. His ugly writing, which I barely understood, made me feel calm.
It made me smile. Like the joke before the grounding. That box became the most important thing in the world for me.
I told my mother not to open it. Those letters were mine and no one else could read them. I knew all the life moments written on the envelopes by heart.
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But it took a while for these moments to happen. And I forgot about it.
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Seven years later, after we moved to a new place, I had no idea where I put the box. And so it happened. My mother had several boyfriends, and I always understood it. She never married again. This boyfriend, however, was worthless. I thought she was humiliating herself by dating him. He had no respect for her. She deserved something a lot better than a guy she met at a bar.
I learned that over the years. At the time, when my skin was still burning from the slap, I remembered the box and the letters. I ransacked my bedroom looking for it, which earned me another slap in the face. I found the box inside a suitcase lying on top of the wardrobe.