Coming Home

Six

My parents were only sixteen years old when I was born. It's quite the typical cliche about high school sweethearts if you ask me. They were just two kids who were crazy in love and had thought they'd beat the odds and stay together forever. You know, those young couples who believe that love is all it takes to make a relationship work, and if their bond is strong enough, they can overcome anything? Yeah, my parents were one of those couples. While they were still incredibly young, they were both ecstatic to find out they were expecting. To them, it seemed only natural to marry as soon as they found out I was on the way, and their parents were quick to give their permission.

I'm so happy that standards and exceptions for this kind of thing have evolved greatly since then; I've always believed that teenagers are too young to take on such a significant commitment as marriage. However, my feelings on the subject are irrelevant to my parents' story.

My mom and dad married before my mother started showing, and everything seemed perfect at the time. Life changed drastically for them upon my arrival, but Mom and Dad were over the moon with the turn of events. Or it seemed that way in the beginning, anyway. My maternal grandparents had helped the two of them secure a small apartment together, and my dad accepted the first job offered to him in order to support his growing family. Because of his age, he didn't have any experience, so said job wasn't anything overly exotic or exciting, but it was enough to put food on the table and cover the monthly bills. My parents didn't have much when they were first starting out, but they were happy. And so much in love that they thought they'd never separate. That's all they really needed, right?

Things only looked up for them after high school. My father was promoted and given a hefty pay raise, finally feeling as if he was doing something productive with his life instead of just making ends meet. And Mom studied hard to earn her teaching degree. They were busy people, doing their best to raise a child the only way they knew while still trying to learn the ropes of adulting in general. While my life was good back then, my parents were hardly ever around because of their ambition to do more with their lives and provide me with what they thought was everything I could ever want. So, my paternal grandparents were more than willing to help out while my parents were busy, providing me with some sense of stability throughout my childhood. And, most importantly, the love of a family. They watched me while my parents were working or going to school, which meant that I spent most of my time at Gran's house. It kind of became my home, even more so than the apartment.

Eventually, after years of hard work and profound determination, my mom got her degree and took on a job as a teacher at the local elementary school. My dad prospered in his work, earning more money than he'd ever dreamed of, so we moved out of the little, cramped apartment, and my parents bought a big, fancy house that my dad took much pride in. My parents had never tried to have any more kids. But while I lacked a biological sibling, I'd never felt like I needed one.

Because I had Uncle Dave.

Since my dad is twelve years older than his younger brother, Uncle Dave was only four years old when I joined the family. Because I spent so much time at their house when I was little, the two of us practically grew up together as brother and sister. The fact that our ages are only separated by a few years led us to be very close throughout my childhood, and Uncle Dave never failed to treat me like his baby sister. Uncle Dave used to be my favorite person in the entire world. He wasn't just my uncle/brother but also my best friend, the person who I could always count on to be there for me.

That changed during my senior year of high school, though.

That, and everything else in my life.

When things suddenly turned bad, and then went from bad to worse, that summer I turned seventeen, I had expected him to be there for me like he always had been. Not only as my uncle but as my best friend; I'd never needed a friend more in my whole life. My mom had left that summer. She left town, left my father. Left me. It was utterly heartbreaking, and I struggled to deal with the loss. However, it wasn't the worst of my problems at the time. The worst was the reason why she had left.

Growing up, my life was far from bad. It was normal. To me, at least. After I started school, I spent less time at Gran's but still remained as close as ever to Uncle Dave. We were stuck like glue, and I had hoped that would never change. My parents were around more as I got older, and everything seemed okay to the child version of me.

Things had begun to get uncomfortable around the time I hit puberty, though.

Once my body began developing, my dad started to pay more attention to me. I didn't realize it back then, but he didn't really see me as his daughter at the time. His eyes would linger longer than necessary or even acceptable, and occasionally he would make remarks about the changes I was going through. He would comment on my body shape, my breast size, and how particular clothing fit my figure. Oftentimes, his remarks would make me incredibly uncomfortable, but I tried to brush them off. How was I supposed to know what his inappropriate comments would eventually lead to? He was my dad, after all. I trusted him.

I trusted him.

I was such a fool.

Looking back, I know I should have said something the first time it happened. I should have called out my dad on his lack of respect and boundaries when it came to the blossoming womanhood of his own daughter, and I should have mentioned what was going on to my mother or Uncle Dave... Or literally anyone. Unfortunately, I didn't have an accurate understanding of what was happening back then. I was young and naive and wholly confused. As I recall the memories, I can clearly recognize the warning signs that should have been glaringly obvious; however, the way my pubescent mind worked was much different.

And for a while, I wholeheartedly hated myself for not seeing it sooner. I had blamed myself for years for my father's actions, intently believing that everything that happened between us was entirely my fault.

It's been a long road to recovery, but one that I'm confident I've finally conquered. At least, I had thought I did before coming back here.