An In-Depth Look at My Family

Ioanna Engarhos
Jul 27, 2017 · 4 min read

My father’s hands were always dirty.

After work, he would come home with his knuckles dyed bright hues of paint. His pointer finger and thumb were stained violet and cherry red from where he held his freshly painted sugar flowers. Sometimes we would all laugh when he realized his nose hairs turned green from inhaling the airbrush paint. The back of his hands were a canvas; the colours changed everyday, but it always took a while for them to fade.

But winter would fade, and when summer began, father’s hands turned black. Grease dried his hands and a permanent layer of dirt went under his nail beds and around his cuticles. His memorized recipes were gone for now; now his only focus was all the house work he gave himself.

His arms bore scratches from sharp pipes and the sparks from welding machine ruined several of his shirts. Mother had to buy him a new one on his birthday, and it was the same colours that had once decorated his hands. It always made me upset when that shirt got dirty.

The garage door was fixed, the gutters were cleaned, the bushes were trimmed and new cement replaced the cracks. The cement spread naturally as if he was icing a cake, his wrist skillfully twisting the just the right way, creating a smooth finish.

He is an impatient, caring, nervous, happy, harsh, surprising man. I don’t remember the last time I told him I loved him.


My mother is too forgiving. Too smart, too kind, too good.

I wonder why she still doesn’t fight back. Sometimes I can see the fire in her eyes when father says something hurtful, (because she always says her mistake was teaching him that she would cater to his every need forever) and I can see the fire turning the city to ashes as she stares straight ahead. Sometimes I see her bite the inside of her cheek and ignore father, walk right by him and continue her life.

Leave him behind, she would say. He always stays too far in the past, and it’s getting harder for him to catch up.

But only to me and my sisters. She only says it when father left the room and was safety out of sight. She never told father the same things she told us.

Mother is coward. But it isn’t her fault.


My oldest sister is just like father.

They have the same drive and the same need to succeed. She tackles problems like him, cautiously and slowly, or all at once, blindly diving head first. They are both a nervous wreck, and while my sister expressed it in tears, father yelled. She grew up being Daddy’s Little Girl, and never grew out of it.

She got married and got an apartment and got a PHD.

Once she moved, she moved. She was no longer my sister. She came to sip coffee and sit at the kitchen table, but would not treat it like her home. She didn’t go in my room and asked to do her laundry, and asked for seconds at dinner. My dad hates the change, and he isn't alone.

She is a guest, a stranger, someone who has moved on. And she didn’t look back as everything fell behind her.


My other older sister thinks she’s a failure.

She’s a drop out. A typical college drop out who has a passion for philosophy and the arts. She has a sharp mind and a sharp tongue, and is not afraid to show that she does not like you. And for being as smart as she is, she labeled herself for so long she believed it.

Drop out is such an ugly word, and people spit it out as if it tastes bad. Housewives whisper it in each other’s ear as juicy gossip. Friends laugh about it and poke fun at it. And my parents were furious, but I’m too young to remember it, and no one talks about it.

And now she’s a secretary who’s trying to get into the school system. She’s living with her boyfriend and comes over and treats home like home. My time is always best spent with her.

I know she’ll be fine, but does she?


I’m afraid of failing.

I’m so afraid of it, I can’t do anything. I’m scared of going to class and purposely let myself fail without trying; because that doesn’t mean I’m dumb, right? Because I’m petrified that if I do try and still fail, I’m as stupid as I thought. I’ll be as dumb as my math teacher thought in high school.

I haven’t spoken to my two friends in weeks, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to hang out with them, knowing they make plans behind my back. I don’t text them back. I can’t remember what went wrong, and if something did go wrong, I wasn’t there to witness it. But when mother asks me about it, I tell her she’s ridiculous for thinking something’s wrong.

I hate that my sisters moved out, and I hate it when I have to act happy about it when people ask me about it.

I hate that I’m eighteen years old and I still can’t tell my dad that you just can’t talk to me like that.

I hate that I’m afraid to ask my parents if I can go out because I don’t want to inconvenience them.

I hate that miss high school dearly, and I wish I could go back.

I hate that I still haven’t gone to visit. But I will. I will.

I hate that I haven’t stood up on a stage or memorized lines in two years. I miss the feeling of putting on a show.

I hate that I'm too scared to change any of it, and I hate that I’ll never get anywhere if I stay like this.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade