That's not very ladylike.

Before my wife left I never felt the need to have pictures of my estranged parents anywhere in the house.

Six years spent filling our walls and shelves with pictures of happiness between she and I…I never felt compelled to have reminders of the family that no longer wanted me. 

Since she left I have found myself digging through boxes searching for some kind of proof that I once had family.

These were all I could find.

They are clipped to my bathroom vanity with tiny wooden clothespins.

My Dad kissing me on the forehead when I was 16, long before I broke his heart by coming out.

My brother and I having our hands held by my Mom at Disney World. Me still in diapers and a dress that my Grandmother made. My mom’s skin  brown from too much Florida sun. My brother in knee socks with a toothy grin.

My Mom by the pool at our beach house in Naples. I took that picture. It was always my favorite. I thought she was more beautiful than any other Mom at the beach. I was somewhere close to 12 years old, and my Mom was my best friend.

This is all I have left of them.

My Dad’s birthday was on the 2nd. I usually call on birthdays and major holidays (even though they rarely answer). This year I decided I’m tired of giving everything to people who give me nothing in return. I didn’t call.

The day after his birthday my phone rang.

Mom cell

Fuck.

My chest tightens. I feel the tears before I even answer.

Her voice was nervous. She’s called me no more than 5 times in the almost 7 years since they disowned me.

We talk the usual chit chat. The weather, my job, more weather.

Then I hear my Dad in the background. My heart stops at the sound of his voice. It’s been at least 4 years since he’s spoken to me at all. 

“Oh is Dad there?” I say in the smallest voice I have.

“He just walked off the 18th green,” she says.

I know she’s passing him the phone. I can almost smell the golf course on his clothes.  I’m terrified and so thrilled to know I’m about to talk to my Dad.

And then he says it.

The words I miss the most from him.

“Hey Babe.”

Suddenly I’m 14 years old dying for approval from my Dad.

“Hi Dad,” I say fighting back tears, “I’m sorry I didn’t call…did you have a good birthday?”

He tells me where they went for dinner, as if I couldn’t have guessed not only the place, but also every single thing they ordered. As if I had somehow forgotten how sweetly routine they are. As if I was never part of their world.

It was four minutes and twenty seven seconds.

One call.

My Mom.

My Dad.

Me.

Four minutes and twenty seven seconds of meaningless words that ached for some kind of semblance of the family we once were.

Four minutes and twenty seven seconds of voices I barely recognize anymore.

Four minutes and twenty seven seconds that  nearly brought me to my knees and left me in tears for hours.

I hung up. 

I didn’t move from my spot in front of the picture window.

I watched a duck land on the water. It’s feet skidding like tiny landing gear.

I choked back my tears and swallowed the lump in my throat.

I stood there locked in my stance. Staring at water surrounding my perfect house that used to be a home. That used to be OUR home.  I reminded myself that I am alone. I am without a wife. Without the future we had planned. Without her family. Without my own.

I am without family. I am alone.

I made myself say it out loud.

You’re alone.

I took a deep breathe.

I turned around and walked up the stairs to get a load of laundry.

You’re alone.

You’re alone.

You’re alone.

I repeated with each stair I stepped up.

I walked into my bathroom and these pictures were staring me in the face. 

My Dad. My Mom. My big brother.

I haven’t always been alone.

I was a daughter. A sister. A sister in law. A daughter in law. A granddaughter. A niece. A cousin. A wife. An Aunt.

I was all of these things at one point. And now I am none of them to anyone.

But it was real once. I was a daughter.

We were a family.