I had an unrealistic dream, where I had a complete family. A family that was held tightly together by the metal clasps of a staple. Our faces, our eyes, were imprinted with happiness I never thought was ever possible. Mother was beautiful, her shoulder length brown hair, dark eyes, a face so utterly perfect. Father didn’t have any features.

He was just an outline. Throughout my childhood I began giving him features of what I thought would make him a perfect father. I built him a personality of protection, imagining he would lift me up on his shoulders, hoping he would be proud to have me as a daughter. I wanted a father that remained tightly glued to the family.

Throughout my early years of life, I would hear my mother telling me that he didn’t matter because he wasn’t there. She explained to me every time I asked about him, giving me a worn-out it’s not your fault he wasn’t ready to be a father.
Those words replayed over and over again like a scratched and fingerprinted CD stuck on the same verse. For the longest time, I blamed myself for him not existing in my life; I knew I wasn’t worthy for him to be a father to me. I was a waste of time to him. Six years of age showed poorer relationships with their fathers than children experiencing disruption later in childhood.
I remember meeting that old fool, how he didn’t take the time to apologize for his mistake, his mistake of casually forgetting about me for eight years. Discarding me as if I was a stained shirt, never taking the time, not once to see if he could remove the stain he created. From then on I knew he would never be the father I dreamt of, he wasn’t proud of me, he wouldn’t protect me.
A couple years later daddy #2 came into the picture, he smiled the same way the fool did. Whiter teeth filled his mouth, a shorter beard, shaved head, he was almost different but I thought he had the same intent. I accepted him with open arms, hoping he was the father that I wanted; he hugged me back, rubbing his scruffy face against my tender cheek. His appearance slowly made it’s way into my dreams; the outline soon became a man with broad shoulders, but no eyes. Just a mannequin covered in skin.
When he would come home, I remember running to him hugging his waist, smiling so bright. He took me to the zoo, we would feed the birds, he’d take me to get ice cream, buy me meatball sandwiches next to the place I took karate lessons. He scolded me like a father would, gave me piggy back rides; I even forgot about the father that left me, he was nothing but a wasted memory.
For three years, he was something that mother and I loved, but for some reason it didn’t work out. Mom said he wasn’t in the best shape, that he had too many problems. After we left him and moved back into my Nana’s I heard her crying once, sitting on the porch, over-looking the smog filled sky. I couldn’t help but shed tears of my own, whimpering breathless words.
Mommy, please don’t cry.
I wrapped my arms around her narrow shoulders and pulled her close, knowing at that moment roles were reversed.

She had to work for us to live on our own. We were living in an old apartment, stuffed down in the streets of California. A small house, one bedroom, tiny kitchen filled with red appliances, and a small bathroom. Food stuffed in the cabinets, paid by food stamps. The back porch was where my mother would plant little herbs and tomatoes. The plants were bright green slowly suffocating, turning brown from the smoke of her cigarette. I watched her blow her stress out of her red lips in streams of white smoke.
She soon found a man who she had known and loved since she was fifteen. He was in the navy, and he was similar, baldhead, more tattoos, whiter smile, etc. The only thing that was different was that he was Puerto Rican. After a year of talking and visiting, we moved out to Florida. Where I was placed in a new Elementary school, forced to meet new people. For about two years, he was still called Robert. Then the third year and from then on, he was known as ‘Pabert’, a mixture of papa and Robert.
They have been together for about five years, our family becoming bigger as my sister came into the family. The image of a father has disappeared in my mind now. It was like family was a piece a paper, torn and crumpled. Dried glue and tape covering the surfaces from temporary fixes. Staples were removed or still left clamped.
I still haven’t accepted him as dad yet; mom said that he has done more than enough to be called dad. I don’t trust him, he makes her cry, and I find myself holding her and feeling her sob. I know marriages aren’t suppose to be perfect, but I just can’t stand to see my mother shed a single tear, it brings too much back.
Then again, I couldn’t possibly be able to accept him, after what I went through moving here. I’m here in a house that I never could’ve imagined myself living in, having my own room, not having to worry about my mothers back because she had a bed now, not a sofa. He’s given us so much, more than we every had; yet I see recent pictures of my smiling face. Seeing my secret plan for escape out of the town that was so mean to me, an escape that would happen was I was out of high school.
My medicine cabinet held my mistakes in a sharp edge, under the sink held attempts that smelt like bleach. Every time they fight or she cries, I hear rips of the paper, but the next day I’m overwhelmed with the sharp slap of a stapler.
This family was covered in too many staples, that I couldn’t see the paper it was drawn on anymore.