Ejection and the Impossible Truth

My parents kicked me out at 18 and said, “Be grateful we fed you, so I fed them something they couldn’t swallow”. On the morning of my 18th birthday, I woke up to my mom pouring cold water over my face.

“It’s time to man up and move out”. I sat up instantly and saw my stepdad standing by my stuff in the doorway. “They’ve always been cruel, but I never expected this”. “But I’m your son”.

My mom laughed. “You’ve been nothing but a burden since your dad died, wasting our money on therapy, crying about nightmares”. My stepdad nodded approvingly. We kept you fed and housed for 18 years. That’s more than most would do.

Before I could process what was going on, they shoved my bags into my arms and literally pushed me out the door. I didn’t even bother fighting. I guess part of me had already given up.

After hours of prayer and petting stray cats, I found myself at a homeless shelter downtown. My hands shook as I filled out the intake forms. That’s when my phone buzzed.

My parents had unblocked me just to twist the knife deeper. Mom, stop calling family saying you’re homeless. You’re embarrassing us. Then from my stepdad, “At least your dad had the decency to die in Afghanistan”. Face palm emoji.

I lost it right there in that plastic chair. I just broke down sobbing. The counselor, this tired looking woman, touched my shoulder. Honey, what is wrong?

I showed her the texts. She was reading them when her eyes drifted down to my intake form. Her whole body went rigid.

“Wait”. Her voice came out strange. “Michael Krisvki, your father died in Afghanistan”. “Yeah, I managed”. “When I was six”.

She gripped the edge of her desk. “Did you ever see the body”? “Attend a burial”? I stared at her in disbelief. “Excuse me, James”.

“Did anyone from the military ever visit after check on you”? “Um, not really”. “No, I don’t know”. “Wait, why are you asking me this”?

Her hands click clacked on her Chromebook. After 30 seconds, her face went white. “James, your father didn’t die in Afghanistan”.

My chest tightened. “What”? “He’s at Palmer V, a psychiatric ward”. “He’s been there for 12 years”. The fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright.

“That’s impossible”. “We had a funeral”. “I went to grief therapy for years”. She looked me straight in the eyes. “You need to see your father today before your parents realize you know”.

Suddenly, little things were clicking into place. Why mom got nervous when military families were on TV. Why we moved states right after the funeral.

I wanted to break down on the spot, but my stepdad’s voice about me being a little echoed in my head. So instead, I took a deep breath and asked, “Why today”?

“Because when, not if, when, your parents find out that you know your dad is alive, then they’ll know someone is coming after the benefits they’ve collected”. She drove me to Palmer herself.

The whole ride, my brain kept rejecting what was happening. But then we walked through those VA hospital doors, down a long hallway that smelled like floor wax and medicine. There he was, my father.

Not the stepdad who beat me, or my mom’s other secret boyfriends who tried to win me over with vintage vinyls. My dad, who loved me. “Dad”? The word came out broken.

He turned and his whole face crumpled. “James, they told me I’d never see you again”. “They told me you hated me”. “I thought you were dead”. I could barely breathe.