I grew up in a household of abuse and sadness. With a mother running desperately after the next ticket to happiness, while discarding her children when their burden was to heavy for her to carry any longer. Through the years, she methodically wove a web of lies about the world that made her the victim. Lies of friends, of family, of ex-husbands, of children.
My second call wasn’t to her.
It was to dad and step-mom Linda.
I grew up believing they didn’t want me. They had their new family, with their own child, and I was the mistake, the inconvenience. Through the years, the warped perception of my worth became less askew and I started to see a world that was more in tune with the truth. They loved me. The distortion though, never fully goes away. You always walk your journey with this ugly rock in your shoe, reminding you of the past and what you were told. You can shake the rock out, and it just comes right on back, never giving you a moments of rest of comfort. You always second guess. Do they really love me?
They were an hour behind us, dad was in his sleeping slumber of Mountain time. Linda answered. We don’t talk very often on the phone. We had been lately.
“The results from my biopsy are back.” I mustered everything that I could to deliver the next words with clarity and without emotion. “It is breast cancer.”
I’ve never heard her cry before.