The Big News

I never really knew much about my father. My parents were divorced when I was a small child. His name was Charles, he was 7 years older than my mom, and I have his nose. Beyond that, I knew basically nothing. I didn't really care, because I'd never known him, was never going to know him, so what did it matter, right?

Wrong.

My mom sat me down a few days ago and started talking about my father. She said that since I'd moved back home I needed to know the "real truth" about him. "CIA?" I asked, joking. She looked out the window and proceeded to inform me that my father was not indeed, from Florida or my father at all. My REAL father was a married local business owner 23 years older than my mother. A skirt chaser. A man I saw nearly every day of my life when I was a kid. They both knew. A Google search told me he died 4 years ago. She only told me because I might come home and date/be friends with a half brother that my father managed to crank out before his demise. According to her though, I'm the youngest and last of the bastard children.

I couldn't help it. I cried. Thinking about it now makes me feeling a little like doing so as well. My mom had a fake marriage certificate made up to give my grandparents with my supposed father's name on it. Once, when I was upset when my Aunt for not finishing out my branch of the family tree, I accused my mom of not really being married to my dad and she whipped that out to show me. When I asked her why she did all that stuff, she said it was because she didn't want her parents to be embarrassed because they were old fashioned.

Apparently no one thought about how this would affect me in later years. It's not good.

Oh, and my last name? Completely fabricated. Nice.