"He's Not My Father, and He Never Will Be" (An Internal Conflict Scene):

Photo by Jane

I slammed the handset back on its base without a care in the world. With hot tears in my eyes I ran blindly from my living room to my kitchen. The first thing I noticed was the new Oster 16-speed blender I bought yesterday from Best Buy. I snatched it from the wooden shelf on top of the stove and slammed it hard on the Mediterranean ceramic kitchen floor tiles. The cover of the blender fell off. I lifted it again and flung it across the room. This time the glass broke into several large pieces and the stainless steel blade fell out. Without thinking I pulled open another shelf and pushed all the glassware so that they fell onto the floor tiles as well. Down came crashing seven beautiful tall wine glasses. In my anger I left the broken mess on the kitchen floor and ran up the stairs to my bedroom.

I was breathing heavily now and my sanity was gradually returning. I sank deep into the folds of the bed with my face buried in my pillow, and I let the tears pour out like crazy torrents of rain. Down they came like streams flowing into an endless ocean. Crying like a baby who desperately needed a change of diapers was what I was doing, but there was no one here to hearken to my cries. Eventually, I managed to turn myself around to lie flat on my back, and I began to stare right up at the ceiling as if to search for answers to my questions. Maybe the tears would drain back into my eyes. And maybe, just maybe, the hands of the clock will suddenly start to tick backwards and that phone conversation would never happen. Why did he call me? Why? The conversation was replaying itself in my head as I faced the ceiling.


"Yes? May I know who's calling please?"


"This is she." Bad feeling. "But who's speaking please?"

"Please forgive me."

"Who is THIS?"

"Please, will you forgive me?"

"If you don't tell me who you are..."

"Ibsituu, it is I...your father."


Tick, tock. Tick, tock. All I could hear were the hands of the clock.

Then even more silence.

"Look here mister, whoever you are...I want you to know that my father is dead to me. I haven't seen him in over twenty years."


"Don't you dare call my name. You're not my father. And you will NEVER be. Do you hear me? You will NEVER be."

And that was how I slammed the phone on him and proceeded to destroy some of my kitchen items. And now, I'm lying here on my back staring at my bedroom ceiling.

As I continued to stare at the ceiling the tears stopped falling and the answers began to come slowly, one by one. But there was this statement that stood out from all the rest:

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you" Isaiah 49:15

Reiterating those same words to myself and substituting the woman in the scripture for my father, I said to myself, "My father forgot about me these twenty years but God surely did not forget."

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This fictional post was written in participation of the "Internal Conflict" blogfest hosted by The Alliterative Allormorph. This was my first blogfest ever. I hope you enjoyed the story. As you know, a question usually arises:

Question for the Day: Where there ever moments when you thought your parent(s) forgot all about you? The bible says that they may forget, but God will never forget. Your name, believe it or not, is inscribed on the palm of His hands.