I had a lot of stepdads. So many that their faces merged into a faceless blur. But the names? The names stick. There was Uncle Nick, Uncle Konstantin, Uncle Alex. Every time a new guy showed up at our place, my mom would whisper, "Don’t call him uncle, call him dad." But I never did. Dad is one person, and it sure as hell wasn’t any of these balding guys with cheap cigars and fake grins.
Even as a kid, I understood that words are not just sounds floating in the air. They carry weight. Every word leaves a mark, like footprints in wet concrete. My mom either didn’t understand that, or she preferred to ignore it, as if you could rewrite the meaning of the word “dad” as easily as swapping boyfriends.
She wanted me to accept these men as “dad,” but I saw through it. "Dad" isn’t just a title you hand to the next guy in line. It’s the person who stands by you when life punches you in the gut. But these men? They came and went, leaving behind only the smell of stale tobacco and empty promises. It was like they knew they didn’t deserve the title, and I knew it too.
What was striking is that she would pick them up like wounded birds, pulling them out of gutters and swamps where they were drowning in alcohol. She would clean them up, dress them, and pull them from rock bottom. But over time, they would disappear. One of them, she even bought a car for. Well, no, they saved up for it together. Though, at that time, she was working, and he was not. In the end, he left in that car, disappearing into the unknown.
I remember how I envied my friend, whose father passed away. His mother never brought anyone into the house as a stepdad. But at my place, they changed more often than the batteries in the TV remote. Sometimes it seemed like they disappeared faster than I could get used to them.
I don’t know if I have the right to judge my mom for her dependence on men… After all, everyone has their weaknesses and flaws. There’s no such thing as perfection. And you know what? I think I do have the right. Because all these years, I saw her pain and her mistakes, but their consequences fell on my shoulders too. I grew up with it—her choices, her hopes, which turned into disappointment every time. And maybe I have the right to be angry. Not because she was weak, but because I had to be strong.
The photo was taken by Trinity Kubassek and sourced from pexels.com
https://www.pexels.com/@trinitykubassek
