A Saint

Damn and bitches — these two words distinctly stuck out in my memory because they're the only times that my dad had cursed in front of me.

I was in third grade when I heard damn. I was playing in the living room with my toys. I didn't do one of my chores. He came out and took one of my toys away while I was playing with it for my punishment. He then said, "I'm not doing another damn thing for you again!"

I'd never forget his face before he walked away. His face was a look of discomfort and regret. I knew he felt awkward after he said it. It must have tasted like pure vinegar to him. Any child's reaction would be to cry. And that's completely normal. Instead I sat there shocked. My dad doesn't cuss! That's the first incident.

The second occurrence was when I was in middle school. It's always so much pressure when you're young, trying to impress your peers. Girls at Redwood Middle School were mean. I told my dad that the girls were making fun of me during lunch because I had worn a pink plaid dress. The girls said to me that I had looked like a picnic table. I told my dad the story when I got in the car, getting picked up from school. My dad just looked at me and said, "Some girls can just be such bitches."

I agreed, and I would still agree to this day.

It took me quite some time to write this story and release it into the world. For a good amount of time, I had held a lot of pain, depression, sadness, tears, and hurt inside. When we hold onto these emotions, we allow that negativity to manifest. Everything I did was tainted with that pain. It's finally time I release it and tell my truth. The truth is the truth is the truth.

I wrote this story for my daddy.

My dad was an absolute saint. I was always intrigued in understanding his personality. Not much shook him. He never got upset and had the calmest demeanor. He was a giving character by caring about all around him, even the smallest creatures. My first memory as a child was when my dad and I would make hummingbird food each morning. I loved mixing the ingredients together and watch the water turn red. We would then hang the feeder outside, and we would watch the hummingbirds drink. Their beaks were so small and fragile. They would suckle the sweet red water. I was hypnotized by how fast their wings could flutter. Even birds this tiny were not forgotten by my dad. He cared for all. It was our weekend morning routine.

Growing up, I had a neighbor named Emma. She lived only a few houses down. Emma's parents were Alan and Nina. Alan, Emma's father, became good friends with my dad. Their friendship began when Emma and I would get together during the weekend for playdates. My dad noticed that whenever I played with Emma, she could never keep up with me on my scooter. She always had to run after me. The next day, my dad gift wrapped a big box with a big red bow and gave it to her. Emma's eyes lit up as she opened the box to find a brand new scooter.

I felt as though Alan, her father, was somewhat insecure about his ability to provide for Emma as my dad had provided for me. As a young child, I knew that Alan had some problems in his past. He had demons in him that I felt he repressed. Looking back as an adult, I realized that he would lash out at times. I didn't understand when I was just a kid. He was always "scary" to me. I don't know what had happened to him in his youth, and I won't assume anything. He would have outbursts, and I felt that he'd take it out on Emma at times and made her cry.

One night, I was at Emma's house. I was four years old, and Emma was five. We were playing with her dolls. Unannounced, Alan came into the house, starting a frenzy. He started yelling obscenities at Emma and I. Nina, his wife, tried to calm him down. It only seemed to get worse. Emma started crying and ran into the bathroom. She was scared, and so was I. I ran out the door and ran to my house and stood there, not knowing what to do. I didn't feel safe, but I wanted to make sure Emma was okay. I didn't want to leave her. I could then take her into my house, and we could go see my dad. I knew that he would have the answer and tell us what to do. I ran to my dad whenever I needed help. He was my safe haven.

I waited for her, listening for any sign to see if would come out. About five minutes later, Alan came out of the house, slamming the door, and saw me standing there like a deer in headlights.

"What are you doing? Get out of here! We don't want you here! Get back inside your house!" Alan screamed at me. I was scared as hell. I didn't understand in the slightest bit what had happened. Alan was over six feet tall. This was extremely intimidating and frightening. The memory was amplified because I was only four years old. I knew at that age that if I got yelled at, it meant I did something wrong. I didn't do anything wrong though. Neither did Emma. That's why it had been all so confusing to me. Why did he do that?

I had asked my dad why Alan would do something like that. I wondered if Emma and I had done something to upset him. My dad calmly explained to me that sometimes people would get angry and they would say things they don't mean. He told me that it wasn't us. I trusted my dad and still tried to understand as best as I could.

* * *

Alan claimed my dad to be his best friend. I thought it odd since he was the exact opposite of my dad. My dad had been financially stable for most of his life. Alan, on the other hand, not so much.

My dad's kind ways were unlimited. When someone needed money, he would simply give it to them. This was not uncommon. He was happy to do it. He wanted to do it.

My father made a nice living for himself. He was a real-estate agent and brought multiple properties to generate income. His humble beginnings were what gave the drive to make his money.

Dad grew up in Texas with his mother, father, and his sister Gina. They lived in the house, while my father lived in the backyard in a small shed not much bigger than a twin-size mattress. He told me that he used to be so embarrassed during lunchtime at school. He went to school every day with homemade bread by my grandma instead of store-bought bread because my grandparents couldn't afford it. Now he looked back and said what a blessing it truly was to have homemade bread. He understood what it was to not have much.

My dad was a bachelor. He married three times including my mother. He decided that marriage wasn't for him in the end. He had never shown signs of bitterness about it. He was always happy for his ex-wives' new husbands and content with his own life.

This was a goal I wished to achieve for myself. My dad created his own happiness. He didn't rely on anyone else for it. His third marriage to my mother ended when I was about ten years old. Even though they had divorced, my mom and dad remained best friends until his death. Even throughout his time in his assisted living home, my mother regularly brought him Thai food she cooked herself from scratch and came to visit him on a weekly basis. My mom also cut hair, so my mom would give him a haircut, give him a nice shave, and trim his nails. My dad would be the most handsome man throughout the facility, thanks to her. Though it never worked out with them romantically, they still welcomed each other's company.

My dad was very sick. He was terminally ill. I was only thirteen years old when I found out he had Parkinson's disease. Nonetheless, he never let it stop him from living his full life for the first six years that he was diagnosed. He continued his hobbies and activities up until the disease told him he couldn't. That was very painful for me to watch. The disease slowly claimed him. He loved to ride his bicycle. He loved going to garage sales. He loved reading. He liked taking a walk and going to feed the birds. He enjoyed the simple things in life. That came to a halt as time went on.

Once the Parkinson's caught up, he couldn't do the physical things he loved anymore except for reading. We did our best to accommodate him and provided him with as many books as he wished. Even in his situation, he lit up the room with a smile every time he saw that we had brought him new books to read.

He eventually couldn't speak anymore since the disease claimed his motor skills. This broke my heart in the deepest places. I would perceive love through words of affirmation. My dad and I were very close and had a special relationship where we would chat for hours on end in the car or at home. Our chats were what kept me going.

I'd never forget our precious moments driving to Grandma's house when we would have long conversations about the world and how he always encouraged me to change it.

These conversations allowed me to begin to think as a young adult instead of a child. He always encouraged me to strive for more. His confidence in me allowed me to blossom into a maturity that not many kids my age would have. He considered me his "best friend" and would tell me every day. The memories fueled me to keep succeeding in the present even though he had passed away.

The Evil Sisters

My dad had four children, including myself. We were all girls. His first wife gave him his oldest, and I'm sad to say, the most evil sister of all — Sandra. She was the ringleader of the other two sisters and the powerhouse of all the drama. She didn't get along with my father particularly. She had her own sinister agenda in which caused a very strained and almost nonexistent relationship between them.

Elizabeth, or Liz as we called her, was sister number two who was the second oldest. She had countless marriages. As a child, I remembered being at different weddings every year. Her weddings were like birthdays. She never could keep a man interested, and I never understood why until I got older. She was one who manifested anger and showed her true self once it was too late. She reminded me of the mythical siren who lured men on ships to their deaths. Out of the sisters, she was the one whom I believed I could trust the most. When money became involved, that's when she personally showed me her second face just as she did to her ex-husbands.

Sister number three was Grace. But she was very far from graceful, I will add. She had always hated me from the beginning. Now I only know this story because of my dad telling me about it. He was not the type of person to lie. The story became more concrete once I started to hear from family friends that Grace still talks about this incident to this day. It's been over twenty years now.

The story went that she hated me because of an incident when my dad went to visit her at her house and brought me along. I was about three years old. Supposedly, Dad had put me down on the floor, and I peed on her carpet. She was absolutely livid and has never treated me the same since. I knew that it sounded absolutely absurd, but how could I make this up? You couldn't. This was the kind of person Grace was. I truly believe this is why she is still bitter toward me.

I never grew up in the same household with any of the sisters. They are all at least forty plus years older than me. We were raised separately, so we never had any significant relationships.

The dynamic among my sisters and even among themselves were awkward. Grace was a follower growing up and wanted to keep up with our elder sisters Sandra and Liz. Sandra adopted a baby girl from China. Shortly, Grace followed suit and adopted two baby girls from China. I felt as though Sandra was someone Grace always wanted to be and, as a result, did whatever she could to keep up. In the mix, Grace had adapted Sandra's mannerisms too. She lingered on Sandra's every word and did whatever her big sis wanted her to do.

Sandra, Liz, and Grace were never too fond of my daddy's third marriage, which was to my mother. Though they were already grown adults and out of the house, they still had their opinions. There was never an effort for them to really want to get to know me. I grew up as an only child, so I thought some cool big sisters to come around would be awesome.

Nonetheless, my mom and dad were very supportive and always played an active role in my life. There was no "need" for a big sister, but it would have been nice. There was a continuous gap that separated me between the other sisters. It was a message that read, "You're not one of us."

Bad News

It's a fall morning. My father was in his assisted living home. I came to visit him. I was a young adult. I just finished high school. I was looking into college. I couldn't decide what my major was. I was explaining this to him as I saw my daddy's brows rose up and down.

"A scientist! A pilot ... no, no, how about a doctor? Yoga instructor!" I shouted out ideas. My dad couldn't speak much. He could say short phrases. He just smiled and nodded. I knew he's listening. I kept talking. "Hm ... what do you think about an astronaut?" I giggled, and he's able to let out a small chuckle.

Alan walked in hurriedly. "I've got bad news. I'm sorry, Charles," he said to my father. He handed him a thick package. My dad, with his shaking hands from the Parkinson's, opened the big envelope. He turned white.

"Daddy, what's wrong?" I asked.

"S-s-sandra is ... iss ... sue ... ing me," my dad stuttered. I heard that clearly.

"What?" I said, shocked. Was Sandra really suing my dad?

The Beginning

"Now you're going with me to see this old friend of mine. She's been my friend for many years. She is your trustee. She's going to take care of things when I'm no longer here."

"Haha! That's not true, Daddy!" I giggled. I didn't believe him. I was only eight years old. As kids, we thought that our parents were immortal. My father was a superhero, and I always thought of him as such.

"I'm not going to be here forever now," my dad said as we pulled into a driveway with high-rise glass buildings surrounding us.

The buildings had large glass windowpanes. Wow. This was some real adult stuff. Big buildings made that impression on kids. We got out of the car and went to the lobby. My dad chatted a bit with the receptionist. They seemed to know who he was. My dad made friends with everyone and always engaged in small talk. He was never a stranger, and everyone loved his presence. What a kind man he was.

"Right up the hallway, the elevators are to your left," the young receptionist said.

"Thank you," my dad said. We walked to the elevator just as the receptionist had directed us and pushed the button that would take us open up. The door opened, and we got inside the elevator. There were so many buttons! My dad pressed the button to the tenth level, and away we went. The elevator doors opened, and we got to an office with glass doors and cubicles. A cheerful small woman came out. She had been expecting us.

"Charles!" she exclaimed. My dad greeted her with a warm smile and told her who I was.

"Cindy, this is Kora," my dad said.

"I haven't seen her in years! She's gotten so big!" Cindy gasped while giving me a hug. She looked shocked and surprised but happy to see me. She knew who I was. "Come into my office, please."

We followed Cindy into her cubicle. There's a desk, and Dad signaled me to join him. Cindy sat across from us.

"Kora, my name is Cindy. I have been friends with your father for many years. I have known you too, but you were very young. I am someone you can talk to whenever you need. I will be your representative when your father is not alive anymore. I am called a trustee," she explained.

This was a lot for me. I was not sure what to say. I looked over at my dad to get a queue or sign from him. He smiled warmly and nodded with her.

"I have helped your dad with his finances for many years. I am his accountant. And now he has asked me to be in charge of your inheritance. That means the things and money your daddy is leaving for you," Cindy explained. "I have promised your dad I will take care of you when he passes away. Once you are twenty-one years old, you will be free and clear of the trust and the need of a trustee. You will receive any real estate and split any money between Grace fifty-fifty.

Then you will no longer be in need of my services. This is in your father's wishes, living trust, and will."

"What about Sandra, Liz, and Grace?" I asked. When you're a kid, you've got a big heart, and you wanted everyone to get a piece of the pie, so to speak. Even though they didn't particularly like me, I wanted to know if they would get anything.

"Sandra and Liz are deliberately disinherited from the trust and will. They do not get anything," Cindy told me. I was shocked.

"Daddy, why don't they get anything?" I asked. I was very curious.

"When your grandparents pass away, they will have money from your grandparents' will. I have my will set up for you and Grace."

"Oh okay," I said. I didn't feel as bad anymore. Everyone would be getting some pie. It's just going to be from two different pies was all — one pie for Grace and me, and the other pie for Sandra and Liz.

"Do you have any more questions?" Cindy asked.

"What is real estate?" I asked her.