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ars leak from my eyes, brought on by my resentment and an overwhelming feeling of betrayal. “I hate you!” The words linger in my mouth, tasting like acid. I have no idea why I said something so hurtful. Anger, fear, insecurity maybe, but as Tug storms away from me, I’d give anything to take them back. His office door slams shut, the force causing a large, framed picture to fall from the wall. The glass shatters on impact, sending slivers across the floor that catch the sunlight and reflect rainbow ribbons on the wall. I drop to my knees and sit back on my heels. My emotions feel like they’re on a tilt-a-whirl and if I don’t get off soon, I’m going to spin out of control.
“Mommy,” Javier sounds terrified and I turn my head toward him. He stands in the hall, his little face frightened. “Is Daddy mad? Is he going to make us leave?”
The ache in my chest weighs me down as I stand. Before I reach Javier, Tug opens the door and kneels down next to him. He holds Javier’s tiny hands close to his chest. I hate the doubt squeezing my lungs, choking me. I don’t want it to be there but it is, and it’s certain Tug is going to tell my son he can’t be his daddy anymore.
“No, buddy, I’m not going to make you leave,” Tug says, and both he and Javier smile.
Relief rushes out of me in a loud exhale that I cover with my hand.
“Are you mad?” Javier asks.
“You’re mom and I had an argument. Grown-ups do that sometimes. They get in a fight, say and do stupid things, but then they talk it out and work through what it is that upset them.” Tug shoots me a quick glance, before continuing. “They forgive.”
Another hustle. That little shit. I can’t decide if I’m angry or thrilled with his using this as an example of why I should listen to my father, but I love the way Javier looks at him, like the he’s the greatest man he’s ever known. He is.
“But are you mad?” Javier asks, clearly still confused.
“Do you ever get frustrated?”
“Sometimes, like when I want a donut for breakfast and Mama says I have to eat oatmeal and fruit.”
Laughter from both of them fills the air and makes me smile.
“Exactly, because you and your mom disagree on what it best for you,” Tug explains.
Javier responds, “I’m going with donuts.”
“And you’d be wrong. But the point is, your mom and I disagreed about something and we’re both frustrated. I want you to know though, that just because your mom and I have an argument, doesn’t mean we aren’t happy together, or that I would make you leave. This is your home. Got it?”
“Got it. Can I go back to my room now?”
“Yep, but I’m going to need a hug first.”
Javier hugs Tug before disappearing into his room again. Tug and I make eye contact and I feel uncertain—scared.
“I didn’t mean it.” My voice cracks, and I inhale sharply through my nose. The tears are ready to spill, but I don’t want to cry.
“No, but you said it,” he says, his voice void of emotion. He goes back into the office without saying anything. He didn’t even glance back, just went through the door and closed it quietly this time.
I go about cleaning up the broken glass. My brain and my heart are both furious with me. What I said was hurtful, but so is what he said. This is childish, the two of us in separate rooms pouting because we’re both too damn stubborn to admit we were wrong, or maybe it’s ignorance. I’ve never had an actual relationship and it’s not like there’s a how to manual for these situations. I don’t think Tug has any more experience with relationships than I do, making both of us ill-equipped to end this silly argument.
The movers arrive just before five and I open the door. Tug doesn’t come out of the office, which I take as a challenge. If he wants to see who can stay angry the longest, he’ll lose. I don’t have a lot of things to move in. Sadly, my and Javier’s belongings fit in twelve moving boxes. I instruct the movers to place them off to the side and sign off on the delivery before they leave. My phone vibrates on the counter and I pick it up.
Tug: You hurt me, and I’m angry, but I love you. Crisis at work, and I’m on a call or I’d come out and talk.
Maria: I’m sorry.
It takes me and Javier three hours to unpack our things and eat dinner. My mind drift several times to Tug, who hasn’t left his office. I hear his voice every now and again, so I know he’s still on a call.
I curl up on the couch and think about the painting in my father’s house, the one he’s kept on display all these years. I remember the joy that sparkled in his deep brown eyes as he looked at it with me and the tear he didn’t care had fallen. His love for me is undisputable, and if I’m honest with myself, I love him too, but the resentment consuming me dominates my feelings. I close my eyes and hear the faint sound of a voice from a long time ago. I can’t even say for sure if it’s my father’s voice, or the one I imagined when my mother shared how he used to sing me to sleep with and old country song called, Forever and Ever, Amen.
As an immigrant helping my Papa on the farm, my father learned most of his English by listening to the radio, which in a hick town like Watsonville was overrun with county stations. The man I met in a Spanish mansion deep in the mountains of Mexico, and the man who helped bring me into this world, are two completely different men. Reconciling the confident, cartel leader, known to be a vicious killer with a younger version, singing to a baby girl in broken English isn’t all that easy to do. The song talks of a man wild and free. Mama told me he liked the song because I was the reason he settled down and wanted a family—that is until he left us.
Maybe knowing now that Mama wasn’t entirely truthful with me is where some of my anger stems from. If she’d been forthcoming with me, then maybe I could have contacted my father when she died and he could have helped financially. Maybe Papa wouldn’t have lost the farm, and then maybe we wouldn’t have moved to Oakland, and maybe I would have never met Eduardo Montez.
I suppose it’s natural for the mind to be curious about the maybe’s and the what if’s in life, things that should have turned out differently, but they don’t influence the right now’s, and wasting time pondering what could have been is pointless. Mama didn’t tell me the truth, and I should be grateful. If I’d never met Eduardo, I wouldn’t have Javier, or Tug for that matter.
Giving real thought to what Tug said about my father proves difficult as my mind rebels. I was desperate, and dirt poor, and I made bad choices. If I’m considering the maybe’s, then I have to be truthful and admit that when I needed the money for Papa’s surgery, I would have done anything to save him, including getting involved with the cartels. I would’ve sold my soul to the Devil himself, and in a way I did. Who am I to judge what road my father chose. At the very least, Tug is right—I should hear him out.
