The last time I saw my father was the night I almost lost my mother. 

I try not to think of that night because it reminds me of my father. 

I can’t tell you much about him since he decided it was best for me to grow up without a father. 

What I can tell you is that my father was the perfect man. 

When I was born my father was a mechanic, since he made good profit my mother was able to stay at home. 

In order to make that profit my father had to work long hours, but he always came home.

By the time I was four my father was still a mechanic, since he made good profit he gave my mother a daughter. 

In order to make a profit my father had to work even more hours, but he always came home, sometimes. 

Sometimes he came home intoxicated, sometimes he came home with other women, and sometimes he didn’t come at all. 

But he was the perfect man- 

My father worked long hours to pay our rent, so he deserved to come home to a warm meal every night. 

My father provided for our family therefore he was entitled to have our dignified attention. 

My father was the man of the house, so he acted like a man. 

My father made sure we had a roof over our head so no one else would hear his yelling. 

My father made sure we had plenty of food just in case he had to throw a plate at my mother. 

My father made sure my mother had no connection with the outside world because he was her world. 

But most importantly, my father made sure my mother had a good excuse for that black eye. 

The last time I saw my father he was strangling my mother. 

I try not to think of that night since it reminds me of my father, but it’s the only memory I have of him. 

I can’t tell you much about him because his addiction to alcohol and women was more important than being my father. 

This piece was from our newest publication, Overlooking Pink