“I’ll see you next weekend, buddy. We will go to a basketball game.”
As soon as his dad dropped him off, the little boy rushed up to his room to hunt for the basketball jersey his dad gave him last year. He wanted to wear it desperately, despite it being at least two sizes too small now. But a little boy’s desires and tantrums won out over his mother speaking reason.
The little boy squeezed into his basketball jersey and excitedly sat on the couch, swinging his legs Friday after school. He knew his dad didn’t come to pick him up until closer to dinner time, but he wanted to be ready. He was excited.
He must have asked his mom at least a hundred times if she had heard from his dad. With each passing minute, when she couldn’t confirm that she had, the little boy’s confidence waivered. Yet he’d still say, “I know he is coming. We’re going to the game” just softer each time.
It was an hour past bedtime. His mother scooped up his sleeping form off the couch to carry him to bed. In his sleep he murmured, “are we at the game, mama” as he snuggles into her shoulder. She only made a soothing but noncommittal noise in response. After laying the little boy down to bed and closing the door just a crack, the mother checked her phone to see if there was any response to her inquiry about visitation. She could see it was read, but still unanswered.
The next few days were tough on the little family of mother and son. He had outburst and would cry. He’d get angry at his tears. He missed his dad and did not understand why he didn’t call, didn’t show, didn’t care. His mother felt like she was not enough and there was no good answer to explain his father’s absence. Her lies sounded hollow even to her own ears: “he is busy,” “you will see him soon,” “I think he is working.”
Over time, the little boy stopped asking. It was a tragic relief to his mother. She no longer had to grasp for lies neither of them believed.
The little boy’s spring play came and went, and while he looked out over the crowd for a familiar face, he did not bother to ask if his dad was in the audience. His birthday party was fun, full of friends, presents, and most importantly cake. He knew his dad got the party invite because he put the stamp on it himself and dropped it in the mailbox. But he did not expect to see his dad. Father’s day passed by like any other Sunday, the tradition hanging awkwardly in the air.
The promised “next weekend” did not come until nine months later when his dad rang the doorbell with no notice. The little boy stood behind his mother’s legs, holding on tight, looking wearily up at the stranger known as “dad.”
The little boy didn’t understand what his dad meant when he said, “this is your fault,” to his mother. He did not want to hear what this stranger said, overly stuffed on the empty excuses, so he turned away. But not before he heard his mother whisper sadly, “no, your actions speak louder than words.” The little boy disagreed. They shouted.