The Gardener

To the questioning faces, I’d blurt the phrase she taught me: “I take after my mother.”

“Dad” was Greek. His seasons of sun on the baseball field so darkened his skin, all assumed he was Negroid.

Mom was lily white. My real father too. They split when I was three.

She offered him, “No child support if you let Dimitrios adopt Jimmy.”

Alright, he said.

Growing up I would smirk, like her, whenever the man she called The Gardener walked through a scene in our home movies.

Years later I learned he had penned me letters. Which she had destroyed.

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This is a 100 word story from a fun little course I’m taking, offered by Nicole Breit. Not 99, not 101. 100 words. A fun exercise! Theme: your origins.