There he is, the man who was my father, dead some twenty-five years now. His death gave me back my mother, in a way. She lived with me for twenty-two years after his passing. She died this March, she was seventy-seven years old. Theirs was an arranged marriage. They were together for over thirty years; he was nineteen years older. She came to love him, I came to not. I guess I loved him when I was small and unaware. My mother chose to be unaware; it was what she knew. I left my fathers' house when I was sixteen. Life was hard, but I survived. I have been taking care of myself ever since. I am fifty-five now, I have a masters degree, a job that makes me happy, and a son that I love.
Am I a happy person? Yes, I am. Did I have a happy, shinny childhood? No, I did not. My life experiences give me depth, but my life, the living of it, I color as I please.