My father's parents divorced when he was very young. He was their only child, so when his mother remarried, my father was adopted by his stepfather, Jim.
Growing up, Jim ws my grandfather. I knew nothing else. I lived with my Nana and Pop-Pop on the days I was supposed to visit my dad. From the time I was 3 years old, the memories created with them took the place of any recollection I have of my dad. Jim owned the chain of Little Caesar's pizza shops. Each night when he came home from work, I went through his briefcase and found the receipt rolls. I took one end of the tightly wrapped, white bundle of fun and ran in the opposite direction of where I had left the roll on the floor. When I got to the wall on the other side of the room, I would look around, making sure nobody was around to catch me. Then I would spin and jump and throw the paper in the air. I stomped on it, tore it, spat on it, anything to hear myself giggle. At that point, life was perfect; I was alone for the most part, but that was the way I liked it.
As time went on, my grandparent's marriage began to fall apart. Jim divorced Nana and I was left, without a goodbye, to figure that out on my own. This separation brought my father back into my life. I was nine years old, still very alone, and like every little girl, needed a daddy. My father would visit Nana and I would stand in the kitchen, peeking around the wall into the living room, just staring at him. I wondered why he didn't want to talk to me, or hug me, or take me to his house. Hours would pass, but I would never get tired of listening to his voice. I imagined him asking me if I wanted to go out for ice cream with him. I longed for him to construct a caring sentence for me. My heart needed to hear words of compassion. I waited. I watched him tell Nana goodbye. I watched him walk away, close the door, pull his shiny, green pickup truck out of the driveway. Then I ran to the door and waited for his next visit. Alone, but hopeful.
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