PETTY

Last night, my real dad asked how I was, and how my uni applications were going. I answered honestly and lengthily but there was no response to my answer. Instead, he launched into a monologue about how the two other women who are the mothers to his four other kids are now almost like sisters. I felt more than a little annoyed, because I didn’t feel like he was concerned about me, he just wanted me to be interested in my four half-siblings. I’m so tired, the onus is really not on me to care because you fathered six kids and cannot care for all of them equally. Sometimes I wish I could be like Melyssa and not talk to him at all. It’s not that I’m not glad for the younger ones that he’s a better dad than he was when he raised me (not very well, if you can’t tell how I yearn for men’s approval) but the very least you could do is not pretend to be interested in my life. Jesus. At least my mum with her misplaced religious worries actually takes care of me and houses me in her apartment. I mean, really, I might share my father’s genes but there’s no freaking love lost there.