Chapter 2 Father's Mistakes

On the day of my birth, my father had bestowed upon me the name Rose. To him, I represented not only his own accomplishments but also a distinct aroma and a beauty so fierce , much like that of a rose with its thorny parts.

My father wasn't wealthy, nor was he financially stable. He was between living in poverty and the middle class. His poor fortune was impregnating a woman half his age when he was already middle-aged. This decision shattered his career aspirations while she took away everything from him, his peace, his money, and even his will to love or live.

He had met this woman when he was getting his teaching career up, he was a professor of English in an interesting school of arts. As he was growing he placed a down payment on a house, and everything was looking up for him. All this was until she appeared in one of his classes, she walked with a certain pride only attributed to the majestic peacock. She knew of her beauty and boy did she flaunt it. Father always said he noticed her, even from the first day, like she had wanted. He would later find out that she was looking to get his attention throughout the whole of the semester.

Father had also later found out that she was not in her mid 20's as she had claimed, but merely grasping onto the embrace of her early youthful years. He was mortified. Father was in love with her, it was against college policy to date your own students, and father had thought about resigning. But he was enjoying the excitement of their occasional sneak around a little too much for his own good, she was his drug, and he was an addict. He did not quit, after all it was not his fault, in his own defense she came on to him.

On a Sunday evening after grading his papers for the term, father had turned on the television to enjoy his basketball game, the Lakers were on. He was just settling in with his root beer when he heard a soft yet persuasive knock on the door. He had opened the door to discover that it was his forbidden lover. She was covered in rain and her own tears, he did not even bother asking what went wrong, he let her in. His neighbors saw.

She was kicked out of her father's own home, her father had caught her smoking, he warned her against smoking and now she had nowhere else to go. Father forgot about how this entire situation looked and how she obviously had friends that could cater to her living needs. Father forgot that to the society he was a man with a young woman in his house at an ungodly hour.

Father had tended to his lover, bringing her a cup of tea as he set up a hot shower for her. As she went in, father had gone to get an extra towel for his guest as he didn't have any. On his arrival back from the markets, the shower was still on. He was surprised because he was gone for a while, a long time enough for a young woman to have taken a long bath, he decided to check on the well-being of his impromptu guest, his lover . She was in there, washing her back. Like any man, father thought about what good it would be to wash her back for her. And he went in.

What would be the usual for both people involved, turned into a 3-week old foetus and a law suit for rape. It did not help father that his neighbors testified against him. He was a quiet man whom they saw let a young woman into his house almost everyday. What were they to think?

My mother had run after winning her case, as much as he knew. She had left her daughter, me, at his front door, there was no note, just a name that she wanted to call me, but father named me Rose instead.

This story was told to me so many times, father never insulted her, he urged me to love her, and I could not, she abandoned me, I hated her.

Nonetheless, father always said that I gave him hope for a better future and made me promise not to follow in mother's footsteps, to back my promise up father made sure no cost was spared when it came to me. My education was top notch, he had no money, but he moved mountains to meet my every need. Despite our ongoing struggles, he always made sure I had everything I needed to succeed, even sacrificing his own needs to provide me with opportunities that counted for something great considering my modest background.

He made an effort to ensure that he acted in my best interests and did not let my mother's shortcomings become mine. My father always reminded me of how lucky he felt to have me.

Growing up, we lived in a small and cramped apartment with modest surroundings. My father's love was the only source of warmth in an environment that often felt cold and distant.

I knew my father had things he needed of me, things that he expected of me to do for him since I was a child. I had to make his aspirations and dreams my own, thinking of everything he had forfeited just for me to get to where I am. As a result, I felt this debt that needed to be re-paid.

However, hiding behind my supposed perfect exterior was a girl who longed for something beyond what she had, a chance to experience freedom and happiness that wasn't touched by the control of my own father, an opportunity to find my own happiness. As I sat in the corner and observed my peers being themselves in their own carefree and somewhat naive state, I couldn't help but feel envy of their blissful ignorance or what I had considered stupidity at the time. With a sigh, I always looked for a few more minutes and went back to books, they always managed to keep me company.

As I went through my teenage years, I struggled with my own rebellious phase and temptation just like everybody else, while trying to fulfill my responsibilities. My father had attempted to shelter me from life's harsh truths, yet I couldn't resist exploring forbidden pleasures that called out with its sweet, seductive melody, and I answered.

I sometimes cautiously ventured towards the edge of danger, exploring the limits of my own sheltered life through secret meets with different boys of my own age. Yet every rush of excitement I felt was met with an overwhelming weight of remorse a tribute to my father's sacrifices for me.

With my back story, I was always left to wonder a few things. The loudest piece of sadness I had to listen to had the nerve to keep me up.

Was I genetically made to never find the love that I wanted?