My dad could be a strange man, and once he got an idea into his head, it was next to impossible to get rid of it.  

He and Mum lived in a different province. We spoke on the phone every Sunday, but on this particular occasion I was calling on a Saturday, because I had good news that I wanted to share. This is how the conversation went down:

Dad: “Hello?”

Me: “Hi, Dad! I’ve got news! Can you ask Mum to get on the extension so that I can tell you both at the same time?”

Dad: *Immediately suspicious.* “What’s wrong?”

Me: “Nothing! It’s good news, honest. Now, can you put Mum on the extension?”

Dad: “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Me: “Nothing is wrong, Dad!”

Dad: “I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t be calling on a Saturday unless you were in trouble of some kind. Now tell me what it is, and I’ll tell your mother.”

We went back and forth like this for a few minutes, with me insisting with increasing desperation that there was nothing wrong, and Dad refusing to go get Mum until I ‘fessed up. Finally, almost in tears from frustration, I snapped:

Me: “Oh for God’s sake! [Boyfriend] and I got engaged last night! I wanted to tell you and Mum together, and now I can’t, because you wouldn’t let me! Happy?”

There was a stunned silence, followed by a meek: 

Dad: “Oh… I’ll go get your mother.”

When I was younger, I knew a boy who was the perfect example of that friend everyone considered a bad influence. He drank at a young age, got in trouble in school, and had a few minor brushes with the law — the sort of things you can kind of get away with when still young enough for police to drag you back to your parents for a stern scolding but would result in a fine or a jail time if done when older.

None of my family liked him, my father being the most vocal of them. He made it no secret that he wished I’d end that particular friendship — though, to his credit, as vocal as he was about disapproving, he respected my decisions enough that he never tried to force me to end our friendship.

I admit that [Friend] managed to drag me into a few minor forms of teenage rebellion — things my father might not have approved of but were relatively benign — but I had the good sense to say no to any of the more dangerous things.

Eventually, [Friend] pushed his boundaries too far and faced two, somewhat related, major problems in a row as a result, which seemed to scare him into straightening up. I did my best to support him through it all when he didn’t have anyone else to support him.

Around the time when I graduated from high school, I distinctly remember my father telling me that he had been wrong to tell me I should end my friendship with [Friend] since I’d been such a positive influence in helping him straighten out. It was a short conversation at the time, and I doubt my father even remembers it, but it was one that really resonated with me and meant a lot at the time.

I convinced [Friend] to join the military with me to help cover college costs, and eventually, we both signed up to essentially be contracted out by the military as security guards for a local prison. It’s a mind-numbingly boring job, but it pays for college, so I can’t really complain.

Of course, I discussed these plans with my family.

Father: “You know, I always said that if you stayed friends with [Friend], he’d eventually do something that would land you both in prison. I’ve been vindicated at last!”

As a warning, this will probably anger many readers. I also apologize for not having tissues to hand out.

I was the unwanted grandchild and the youngest of my paternal grandmother’s grandkids. My grandmother made it very apparent that I was an unwanted extra in the family. She gave me literal garbage as presents for birthdays and holidays — and only because she was obligated to wrap something. 

As an example, one year as a teen, I got a gift that had been made with multiple pairs of old, stained pantyhose that had been cut up and then stitched back together to vaguely resemble a shirt. Yes, fully see-through pantyhose. The foot parts of the pantyhose, complete with stains, had been cut and Frankensteined into “ruffles” on the sleeves of this bizarre monstrosity.

Grandmother hadn’t even made it herself, so she couldn’t even be allowed “effort was made and just went horribly wrong”. She had found it in a garbage bin behind a thrift store — as a “donated craft” thing that even the thrift store had rejected putting out on their floor. After she fished it out of the trash, it was shoved into a brown paper grocery bag and just dropped next to the pile of beautifully wrapped gifts from family members who cared. No, she didn’t wash it. Yes, it still reeked.

My dad was angered by how Grandmother treated me, and he would openly defend me and confront her face to face whenever she pulled this. She would get angry in turn, argue, and turn it around to try to make him feel guilty for not appreciating that I got anything at all. (She was very manipulative and, unfortunately, Dad had some work cut out for him to break her control over him entirely.) He did, however, allow me a huge amount of leeway for how I felt and spoke about her. I referred to her as ‘the old bat” and shocked my then-boyfriend when I called her a b**** in front of both of my parents. 

At the time, my boyfriend couldn’t believe that, one, I had sworn, as he hadn’t heard my potty mouth before, and two, who I had called that, especially in front of her son. He glanced at both of my parents and was even more shocked to see both of them nodding their heads in agreement. This was his introduction — and warning — about what one member of the extended family was like.

My crime, and the reason for Grandmother’s lifelong hatred of me? I was the only girl among the all-male grandkids. I wasn’t a grandson to help carry on the family name (please ignore the five other male grandkids), so I was a “wasted birth”. Since men don’t “buy” daughters to marry in this country, I couldn’t even net the family any value that way, either. (Her own marriage had been worthwhile because at least she had been able to bring the family something when her then-husband paid six cows for her. No, I’m not even kidding; that was considered a huge dowry in her village. Moving to the USA did very little to affect her worldviews.)

I then compounded my crimes later by having a (worthless) female child, who was also born “out of wedlock”. My daughter was conceived when we weren’t married, but my then-boyfriend broke down into tears when I told him, called himself an ultimate dork for not having a ring on hand, and asked me to marry him as soon as he heard that I had a bun in the oven. He promised there would be a ring soon, even though he couldn’t slip one on my finger at that exact moment. We got a marriage certificate soon after, but I carried my baby to term and waited a bit longer to recover my health before we bothered with the wedding ceremony. One of my most beautiful pictures is one in which my husband and I are cradling my infant daughter between us, still wearing our wedding regalia.

However, yet another sin was added because we aren’t religious, so we didn’t have a priest or person of God performing the ceremony. This meant that the child would be cursed before God and her soul would go to Hell. There was no point in asking for God’s forgiveness or getting her baptized after the fact because we had committed the sin and God’s wrath was already upon her and steeped into her very flesh. (Apparently, Jesus didn’t die for everyone, just the select people Grandmother says he died for.)

My grandmother’s opinion of a cursed child was confirmed when my daughter proved to be “broken” after being diagnosed with hearing loss in her infancy. Grandmother made it no secret that my child being deaf was a “stone around my neck” and God’s punishment upon me, as well as upon the innocent baby. She claimed that my daughter would have been born perfect if only I had been married “properly” before conceiving. People with disabilities like hearing loss or blindness are viewed as incapable of living independent lives, in her eyes. They will always be a drain on someone, whether it be their families or the government.

My dad came absolutely unglued at her attitude about his grandchild, and that broke the last chains of her control in his mind. He disowned his mother on the spot, which resulted in screaming phone calls until she was blocked on everything. 

For a short time, she would come to our house and pound on the door, screaming to be allowed in. When that failed, we had curses scribbled on linen and taped to our windows — stuff like “May God bring the curse of Job upon the inhabitants” and other lovely things. She was eventually forced to leave when the law became involved. Unlike back in her home village, law enforcement here viewed bribery very negatively. I still have her shocked reaction on security recordings from when one officer quoted the Bible as clearly stating that the law of the land holds God’s authority.

As for my daughter? I could barely get her away from my dad. I never had to change a diaper at their house because Dad was insistent on getting his one-on-one time with her, even if it was a five-wipe diaper and then she peed on him. He doted on her, but not to the entitled princess stage; she just knew that she was loved.

She will never know her great-grandmother, which is for the best.

This story happened a long time ago in the ancient days when cell phones were not a thing, and you couldn’t just look up answers on your phone.

My mom and dad were at a bar when the song “Ruby Tuesday” came on. 

Mom: “Oh, I love this song! It’s by the Beatles, right?”

Dad: “No, it’s by the Rolling Stones.”

Mom: “No, that can’t be right.”

They came to the agreement that in order to figure this out, they would ask the other patrons at the bar. Long story short, through force of personality, my mom managed to convince the entire bar that she was correct and that “Ruby Tuesday” was by the Beatles.

When they went home, they looked it up. It’s by the Rolling Stones.

Shortly after my mum and dad got married, my dad decided they should go camping, since my mum had never been. They went with my dad’s friend and his friend’s wife. After they set up camp and had a fire going, it became dark. My mum leaned over to my dad.

Mum: “Um… I have to go to the bathroom.”

Dad: *Hands her a flashlight and some toilet paper.* “Alright, here you go.”

My mum stared at my dad like he was insane. She was a city girl and so had never not used a toilet before. The friend’s wife took my mum into the woods to do her business.

Shortly after they returned, my dad announced that he now had to pee. My mum tried to hand him the flashlight, but my dad waved it off, boldly stating that he didn’t need it. He walked off into the darkness… a few moments later he comes running back, yanking his pants into place and screaming:

Dad: “I TOUCHED SOMETHING FURRY!”

Mum and the friend’s wife got in the truck and locked the doors, while my dad and his friend grabbed flashlights, a shovel and a stick and went back to where my dad had been. They found the spot.

While my dad had been relieving himself, he had put one hand on a tree branch to steady himself. Right where he had put his hand… was a shaved baby doll’s head. And my dad, being my dad, took the head with him.

For years he would take it camping and hunting with him.