IF YOU ASKED MY SISTER TO NAME ONE GOOD THING ABOUT MY FATHER, SHE WOULD TELL YOU HIS FAVORITE BEER.
If you asked me to name one good thing about my father, I would give you several.
When I was young, my father was the shape of home to me. A buff 5’6″ man from El Salvador who had done everything he could to get to the United States, became my idol. Charismatic and capable, the kind of man who could fix anything. In the moments I got to see him, his hands were always dirty and rusty. He never forced me into sports, never pushed me to be anything I wasn’t. It felt like he was the only person in the world who knew me. My mom hated that, but he didn’t. He glued all 1,000 of my motor mover lego pieces together so they’d never break, specifically the electrical monkey, he knew it was my favorite animal.
For a long time, I forgave him for everything. Everything he did to me, to my mom, to my sister. I forgave him. If you asked me why, I wouldn’t know how to answer.
Even now, I still don’t.
My father ran off somewhere, and my mom tried to convince me that none of it was her fault. I didn’t believe her because I couldn’t. All I could possibly picture is the man who was my anchor, the person I tied every certainty to. She spoke about him with a kind of bitterness that felt endless, and my sister followed her lead: silent, distant, unwilling to face him. I would’ve never thought to see him that way. He was everything to me.
But I can’t blame my sister.
She was born four years after me. By the time she knew him, he was already different—older, worn down. Gray hair creeping in, weakness settling into his shoulders. She was only six when he had the surgery, and from then on, something in her shifted. She saw him as a waning figure, but he loved her in quieter ways. He’d clean up her spilled milk before she could cry too hard. He’d buy her candy, but never toys. He’d show up to pick her up from school, but he was never really home. We didn’t know what he did for work; he didn’t know what we were learning in school.
If you asked my dad to name one thing about my sister, it would probably be her favorite candy. She knew small things about him. That he was funny, maybe, that he drank a cold Golden back in El Salvador, and in the States, it was always a Corona with lime.
That’s about all she knew.
I used to tell her not to dwell on the past, that she’d lose herself if she did. But I think I was trying to compensate for something I didn’t understand. I had guidance from him, even if it was incomplete. She didn’t.
And somehow, that became my responsibility.
An ill-fitted sixteen-year-old trying to play father. Only four years older, still just a kid. I didn’t deserve that role, but it fell on me anyway.
It always did.
It’s something about not having him there.
It’s something about not having him there.
My mom carried everything, keeping us safe, fed, clean, and protected. She built a life out of exhaustion. We resented her for the way she spoke about him, but she did what he couldn’t.
And still, she says his name. At dinner. In passing. In memory. I used to wonder why. Maybe it’s the empty holidays. Maybe she misses him. I often catch her playing his favorite songs from time to time.
Maybe she’d never forgive herself if she admitted that she does.
My head in my hands as he left, stocking stuffers are empty, the presents unopened, Christmas ornaments shattered into a million pieces. He took his 1992 Jaguar with him, his prized possession, a stationary car, when he wasn’t repairing it. I knew I’d never see him again.
I have known him my whole life up until that very point.
A couple years have gone by now, and I’ve only known him for eight of the twenty-one years I’ve been alive.
And somehow, that feels like everything.
My brother, he figured things out in a different way. He despises him now, thinks my mom was right all along.
And she might have been.
BUT IF YOU AKSED ME WHAT I KNOW ABOUT MY FATHER,
I’D STILL TELL YOU ABOUT HIS FAVORITE BEER.
And if you asked my brother,
He wouldn’t say much anymore.▲
