The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
Family Matters by Allison Hambrick
My father was a bitter man. Unsympathetic. Stubborn. A marine, through and through. His idea of parenting varied from “rub some dirt on it” to “shut up and stop whining, you worthless piece of shit.”
The first time he hit me, I was in first grade. There had been spankings before, but nothing like this. My father had purchased himself a shiny wooden desk, like the kind you’d expect some government official or CEO to have. The rule was keep out of his stuff and out of his way, meaning that I had to admire the mahogany masterpiece from a distance. My sister, Daphne, didn’t take the same approach. Attention, good or bad, was what she wanted. I imagined what was going through her head as she dug through the pristine shine of the desk’s surface. Where had she found my father’s car keys? Why did she choose to write my initials?
I had returned home from a pick-up game of baseball with the neighborhood boys. The shower was started, the towel selected, and the perfect pair of pajamas laid out. Instead of meeting the warm embrace of water, I felt the white hot sting of my father’s hand on my face. He pulled me from the bathroom, through the living room, and into his office, dragging me by the arm like a ragdoll.
“What the hell is this?” he questioned, motioning at the crudely etched “CM” distorting the façade of his desk.
“I don’t know.”
“Why would you do this?”
“I didn’t, Daddy.”
“Stop lying.”
“I’m not. Why would I put my own name on your desk?”
A flicker of recognition ran across his face. Knowing I was right, my sister’s name bellowed from his lips. That was my biggest failure as a brother. Was it worth saving myself if it meant throwing someone else under the bus?
Life got easier with time. We were constantly moving from military base to military base. Michigan to Ohio. Ohio to California. California to Tennessee. It was in Tennessee that my father found some happiness. Maybe things were going to change for us.
That stroke of luck was named Abby. She was about eight years my father’s junior, fair and plain. Talking to her lead to awkward silences and forced laughter, but he seemed better with her around. Daphne, of course, hated her.
“She’s not our mom, and she never will be.” I recall her saying.
Wrong as per usual, Daphne ate these words after the wedding. Abby was well-meaning yet clueless. She was handed the role of mothering a 10-year-old and her eight-year-old brother almost overnight. Her ignorance shown through when we made the move to Memphis. My father had traveled ahead to prepare the house for our arrival, so it was just “Mom,” Daphne and me.
