Sometimes You Must Set Yourself on Fire

A loud inhuman wail came from the kitchen.  I froze.  I peered around the corner to see where the sound was coming from.  Inaudible voices softly murmured. I could see my grandmother standing away from my father  her hands placed firmly on her hips.

I had never seen my father cry like this.  His breathing erratic through his deep sobs and free-flowing tears.

Suddenly he slammed his fist on the counter, making my grandmother jump.

"Why would you do this? Don't you love all your children?" He said with a tormented expression while gazing at my grandmothers face. Searching for empathy. Understanding.

His fist shoots into the air, trying to battle an unseen monster.

Silence.

"You have given me nothing. The last thing you could do is leave what you have to your children. " He vehemently spits the words. Years of boxed up fury.

It seems in my grandmother's household, not all children are loved equally.

My father played the role of the dutiful and caring son, while hiding the neglect.

This Trust and Last Will was one last punishment for daring to start his own life and leaving.

Leaving her.

He slammed his fist against the counter.  Grandmothers arms raised defiantly across her chest.

He knew this outburst was fruitless.  She made him feel like that tiny helpless boy again.  Embarrassingly wearing the same soiled jeans for years at school, being tormented by his classmates. His mother amazingly not seeing his need for affection or care.

This was her last chance to provide for her family.  To bring peace. If she had said she was sorry he would have forgiven her.

But she stared past him, seeming to examine the knick-knacks on the wall.

Viewing this indifference, his face steamed to a blustery red.

Screaming, "Why won't you listen? Why don't you love us equally? " Shouting everything that he wasn't supposed to bring out of the darkness.  It was as if he had unlocked the family safe, pulled out its contents and set it all on fire.

A hot brilliant flame she couldn't ignore.

I'm proud of my father for refusing to be a victim and for doing for himself what he needed to do-saying how he really felt.  He will never hear any apologies, but he had all the dirty laundry out in the open and off of his chest.