What’s the darkest prank your parents have ever played on you?

The Lie

Growing up, I was fully convinced that my parents would be together forever. After all, they had all the signs of a loving relationship. My dad would scream at my mom every day over the littlest of things, and my mom would spend every night crying herself to sleep.

It wasn’t until I turned eight that I realized that wasn’t normal. That’s when my mom told me that she and my dad would be divorcing. At the time, I thought it was cool because all I knew was that they would stop fighting all the time.

I would get two birthdays and two Christmases. The first year was great. My mom got me an Xbox One and I was so happy to see her smiling for once.

When I went to my dad’s house, I expected something just as cool or even cooler. But instead, he got me nothing. I was by no means a spoiled child.

I didn’t even care and just spent December 26th playing FIFA on my Xbox, jamming out to the nights by Avichi. The good old days. But halfway through, my dad barged into the living room and unplugged everything.

“Your mother is an effing disgrace for buying you all of this.” “You’re too young to understand, but it shows that she doesn’t really care about you.”

Well, he was right. I didn’t understand at all. But I did know one thing: I wanted to keep my dad happy.

So, I just nodded and spent the rest of the day watching old NBA games from the 1980s with him. The next morning, when he was supposed to drop me off at my mom’s, he was still asleep on the couch with a beer bottle in his hand.

I shook him awake, and as soon as his eyes opened, he burst into tears.

“Son, your mother is trying to keep us apart.” “It breaks my heart when you’re not around.” “Please don’t go.”

As I stared into his tear-filled eyes, there was no way I could say no to him. So I just nodded and wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could.

My dad spent the next few days transferring me to the school in his district and convincing me to cut ties with my mom. I was getting bullied in the school near my mom’s house anyway, so I thought it was a no-brainer.

A week later, when New Year’s Eve came around, I thought about how excited my mom had been to bring me to a homemade ice cream parlor near us. She was going to finally let me stay awake until midnight and promised we would watch the ball drop in Time Square on TV together.

I asked my dad if I could borrow his phone to talk to my mom. He then shoved his hand into his pocket and whipped out his black long necklace with a broken heart attached to the end of it.

“This is how I feel when your mother tries to keep us apart.” “You’re safe with me.” “Don’t ruin it.”

He then put the necklace around my neck like it was my chain to his home. I hid my pain behind fake smiles and laughter, not wanting my dad to feel like he wasn’t enough for me.

I started resenting every child I saw that was walking with his mom because they didn’t know how good they had it. Anytime I was hurt by a bad grade or falling in the park, it was my mom who I wanted to wrap her arms around me and tell me everything would be okay.

Looking back, I never really got over the pain. I just let my heart grow cold and bitter. Every Christmas, I’d try to ask my dad if I could spend the day with my mom.

He’d tell me that she had already gotten a new boyfriend and had forgotten all about me. When I looked her up on Facebook, I saw that her profile picture really was her and another man.

I started believing everything my dad said, that she really had abandoned us without a second thought. By the time I turned 16 years old, I had already had almost eight failed relationships.

I couldn’t hold down a friendship for longer than a year. My dad raised me to believe that all women were and it’s always better to leave them before they can leave you.

Meanwhile, men couldn’t be trusted either, because they all just want to use you. Luckily, my dad got into a car crash a few months later. He was perfectly unharmed and got a fat insurance payout.

I was so shocked that I felt the need to call an adult and that adult was my mother. I called from a completely new number, one I had never contacted her with before.

“Is this Neil?” she blurted out before I could say anything. That’s when I knew my dad had lied. “Yes,” my voice was cautious and quiet.

She asked me to send the address of where I was. It was a 30-minute drive, but she got to the hospital waiting room in 20.

As soon as she saw me, she wrapped her arms around me so tight, I thought she was never going to let go. I didn’t hug her back, just kept my arms glued to my sides.

“Mom, how could you have moved on so fast?” I blurted out, voice shaking. Her face completely fell.

“Son, I’ve been fighting for custody ever since the Christmas when I last saw you.” She then burst into tears and told me how much she had missed me. She told me how she was sorry for missing all the milestones in my life.

I knew by the look in her eyes that she was telling the truth, and finally, I hugged her back. But as I did, I felt a deep rage fill my system. My dad had ruined my childhood, all in the name of his ego.

After that hospital reunion, I started secretly visiting my mom every Sunday. I told my dad I joined the robotics club at school. He never questioned it because he was too busy drinking and watching sports.

My mom’s place was smaller than I remembered. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment now with faded yellow walls and a kitchen so tiny you could barely fit two people in it. But it felt more like home than my dad’s house ever did.

She’d make me grilled cheese sandwiches cut diagonally just the way I liked them as a kid. And we’d catch up on eight years of lost time. I learned she never remarried.

That guy in her Facebook photo was her brother who helped her through the divorce. My dad had twisted everything. One Sunday, she showed me a box full of letters she’d written me over the years.

Birthday cards, Christmas cards, even random Tuesday cards just saying she loved me. All returned to sender because my dad moved us three times without telling her.