Chapter 4: Raised by Ghosts and Regret

My dad was a deadbeat.

No sugarcoating it. He was the kind of guy who never grew up, who never took responsibility for anything or anyone.

He worked as a maintenance mechanic at a machine shop in town—never very skilled, just coasting through life.

He’d always been more interested in getting by than getting ahead. If there was an easy way out, he’d take it.

At work he was half-asleep, and after work, it was always poker and beer.

Most nights, I’d hear the clink of bottles, the low rumble of voices from the next room. The only thing he took seriously was the next hand.

For as long as I can remember, he either left me at the neighbor’s or gave me some cash to buy my own food.

I learned to fend for myself early. The best frozen dinners at the corner store? I could recite them by heart. And I knew how to microwave ramen without burning it.

Grandma and Aunt doted on me, but Grandma was old and sickly, and Aunt had her own family, so their help was limited.

They tried, but there was only so much they could do. Sometimes, I’d sit on Grandma’s lap and listen to her stories, wishing things were different.

So I grew up a latchkey kid.

The kind who let herself in after school, made her own snacks, and watched reruns until bedtime. I got used to the quiet.

I did poorly in school, dropped out before finishing high school, and went straight to work—factories, supermarkets, always at the bottom rung.

I bounced from job to job. Nothing felt like a future. Most days, I was just keeping my head above water.

I was jealous of other happy families, honestly. Sometimes I wondered—if Mom hadn’t died, would Dad have turned out this way?

Sometimes I’d catch glimpses of other families—dads tossing footballs, moms laughing in the kitchen—and wonder what it would’ve been like. If things had gone differently, maybe I’d be someone else.

But after what Aunt told me, it turns out he was a scumbag even twenty years ago.

The realization stung. I’d spent years blaming fate, but maybe Dad was always destined to screw things up.

Grief and anger welled up inside me, and as I looked at my phone again, a strange anxiety crept in.

I kept glancing at the old flip phone, half-expecting it to ring again. My nerves were shot, my thoughts racing in circles.

Was the person who called last night really my mom from twenty years ago? Would she call again?

The question gnawed at me. If it was really her, did that mean I could change something? Or was I just chasing ghosts?

I fiddled with the old gray-and-black Motorola, but when I tried to call back the number from yesterday, it said the number didn’t exist.

The robotic voice was final, like a door slamming shut. I stared at the screen, wishing I could break through the barrier of time.