Five Secrets My Father Kept from Me as a Child
Unraveling of deception, lies, and narcissism within my Italian-American family.
Inside my father’s dresser drawer were usually a few pennies, nickels, and, if I were super lucky that day, a quarter or two. After work, he would empty his pockets and drop the coins into his top drawer. I was allowed to take the coins for our weekly trip to the grocery store and use them to buy candy or bubble gum from the machines near the front of the store.
One day, while reaching my hand up into the drawer, I felt pieces of smooth paper lying flat against the drawer’s bottom. Curious, I slid them forward and lifted out three, yellowed, faded photos. Two, smiling girls and one boy with neatly-styled hair and pressed, tidy clothing were staring back at me. Looking at their eyes, I suddenly felt a knowing jolt of familiarity that made my stomach clench.
I had so many questions for my father — Who were they? Where? What happened to their mother? Was he ever going to tell me about them? I tried to calm my eight-year-old mind by denying their connection to me, but there was no knowing what I now knew. Irrationally, I was angry at these children for existing. My world was already undeniably fragile and showing signs of beginning to crumble.
