My father married for the third time in August. He first wed my mother, which lasted two years and ended nearly twenty years ago, and then Darlene, which lasted fourteen years and ended officially one year ago. I thought it was a mistake for him to marry again, especially so soon after his last divorce. After two failed marriages, I think that one should take some time to reflect, being careful not to jump into something too quickly and have the same issues potentially become problems again. So even though I thought him silly for marrying and worried about how my thirteen year old half brother, Justin, would take it, I wanted to show him that I would be supportive.

Whether or not it was intentional, the split with his second wife changed things between us. Though he and I have never been very close, after she moved out of the house, in February 2001, I rarely saw him (he lives less than 15 minutes away), nor did I even talk to him often. At least part of the reason for this, as it turns out, is that Darlene was the one who called me and invited me over, for dinner or to do my laundry. He had never taken the initiative to call me himself, or plain things for us, without her encouragement. When Darlene left, my father soon found a woman he was interested in, named Tina, and began to spend most of his free time with her. Within six months after he and Darlene split, in the summer of 2001 (they were not yet officially divorced), Tina and her teenage daughter, Tasha, moved in with him. These circumstances led to his conclusion that I was staying away because: 1) I was angry with him and 2) I did not like his new girlfriend, or the fact that she was ‘replacing’ a step-mother with whom I had been quite close. There may be a grain of truth in these statements, but there were no personal motives against these two people; I simply thought it was all too soon.

I was busy during the second half of 2001, taking time off school and traveling out of the state for about ten weeks. By Christmas that year, my father asked Tina to marry him. He never told me; I saw a diamond ring on her finger on Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s house. Ironically, the gift I was going to give him didn’t come in on time, so I had no present for him that night—yet more evidence that I was angry and spiteful, even when I told him what had happened with his gift. I didn’t really know Tina or her daughter and didn’t even think to buy them gifts. More accurately, the thought probably did cross my mind, but I couldn’t afford gifts for everyone. That isn’t exactly right either—I could have given them candy, or something else small—I just didn’t buy them anything. This was the first time that I spent any time with them and I found them rude. Tina began eating before everyone was seated at the table and Tasha loudly complained that she wanted to leave. Part of me was disappointed, yet another part of me was not surprised. At this point I didn’t seriously dislike them, but I didn’t like them either. And I'm not sure that I wanted to.

In the spring of 2002 my father told me that he and Tina would be married in August. I think that I told him that as long as he was happy and that Justin was doing okay with it, I thought that it was fine. I meant it—I was worried about Justin more than anything else—but I knew that he would be able to handle it. Kids are strong and resilient, and usually don’t receive the credit they deserve. The distance between us, however, remained.

The time of the wedding came around in August 2002. I hadn’t received an invitation in the mail, nor had I received a verbal invitation, telling me the day and time. I heard the date from a friend of the family. I didn’t know if I was not invited or if it was assumed that I would attend. I finally reached my father on the phone, after he failed to return my calls, to try to straighten things out. He let me know the details of the wedding: that it would be on a Saturday afternoon in his backyard and that they were going with a western theme. “Wear whatever you want—jeans, shorts—whatever you’re comfortable in,” he’d said.

I immediately began to think about how to resovle the misunderstandings that had piled up. In a most shallow manner, I began to think about what I would wear.. I had a new summer dress that I had not had the occasion to wear yet and decided on that and some sandals. However, once I spoke to my grandmother and learned that she was wearing jeans and cowboy boots, I reconsidered. I was afraid that by dressing up, I would appear to be saying either something about my status compared to theirs (more formal clothing + more formal education = more sophisticated), or that this general unwillingness to comply with the “dress code” said something about my unwillingness to accept their marriage. So I decided on a denim dress and sandals—the most western thing that my closet had to offer.With my physical appearance representative of my compliance, I thought about a gift (with the Christmas situation in mind). I found a card that was nice—not too sentimental—and bought some bamboo wind chimes—a gift that wasn’t extravagant, but still required some thoughtfulness—because I knew that Tina liked wind chimes. I prepared myself to be poised and sincere, because I truly had nothing against my father or Tina for their decision, and had no business judging what they should do in their relationship.

When I arrived at his house that day, I felt awkward walking up to the yard from my car, like I didn’t belong there. I felt the same when I sat on a bale of straw with the rest of the wedding guests and pulled my sunglasses back over my eyes, after noticing others in the crowd wearing theirs. I didn’t know many people there, and my family members seemed to have little to say to me. I wanted to smile and be happy for them and I tried the best that I could. But my feelings about the event that was taking place hadn’t changed. I thought about my first stepmother, and wondered if she was home thinking about how easily she had been replaced, and hoped that she wasn’t hurting too badly.

My father took his place beside the preacher and briefly communicated with members of the crowd. He smiled at me and mouthed, “Hi, honey,” to which I returned him a genuine smile. The bridesmaids then walked to the altar with their escorts: my father’s best friend and Justin. The maid of honor, Tasha, was escorted by my grandfather. She had tears streaming down her face and was sobbing almost uncontrollably. My father gave her a bright smile and a laugh, as she tried to smile through her tears. He turned toward her with a sparkle in his eyes that I’ve never seen, and kept his focus on her. My grandmother chided Tasha from the crowd: “You’re supposed to be happy about this day, honey!” (was she talking to me, too?) The crowd smiled, chuckled, and my father beamed in Tasha’s direction, as she nodded and tried to compose herself. I burned inside and held back tears with all of my might. I knew then that it was a sham. That I was a sham. I wasn’t indifferent about the marriage. I was angry and jealous and hurt and a whole host of other emotions that I couldn’t show that day.

I sat there and wondered why that gleam in his eyes wasn't ever directed toward me. If he was capable of loving a daughter, as he seemed to love Tasha, why was I sitting here in the audience, feeling like a stranger among my relatives? I knew that there were no answers and that the only way to get through the day was to keep pretending. I could no longer tell myself that things were fine, but I painted a smile on my face and kept moving forward.

I retained my composure that day, wished them both well and went home.

 

Return to Title Page