A father of mine

As I arrived at Northridge Central Station I saw before me a familiar, yet distant, face, like the ghost of a Christmas passed. It was a handsome face, with, like me, a dark complexion, and a mane light brown hair. “Charlotte!”, he said as he approached me. “Hello dad”, I responded in a lethargic tone. I had been thoroughly exhausted by the trip and more-so by the vision of my father, the man that abandoned me and my mother when I was but three years old. “Oh my, you’re just as beautiful as Blanche! You must be a hit at your mother’s parties, and with all the young men, I expect?”. I smiled politely but really I was saddened by how this man didn’t know me at all. My own father didn’t know about my timidity, my irreverence to my mother’s socialite parties or my abhorrence of being called by my full first name.

In an effort to end the infectious silence that invaded the Jaguar XF (which by the way, was nothing but a lame endeavour at pretentiousness), I started: “So how is work at the university, father”? “Well, it’s very much the same; students are getting brighter each year. It is quite a thrill to teach the most brilliant students in the world; a true pleasure. I say, do you already know what you wish to study at university, young lady? It’s about time to start thinking about that, no?”. At this point at stared at him in disbelief. Surely mum would have told him about my dream to study Ivy League Modern History? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Mother said again and again that was the only aspect of my personality inherited by my father. Although I never knew whether this was a compliment, she and grandmother seemed utterly content when divulging my academic success to Lady Countenor, who, correspondingly, inflated in jealousy (her twin daughters, Eleanor and Sophie, weren’t exactly the best of role models).

My mother, Blanche Hippolyte, was never at all dedicated to academia. She was, nevertheless, one of the most revered professional tennis players in history. In fact, mother won the 1991 Rolland Garros tournament and many other well respected institutions (hence naming me after Rolland Garros winner, Charlotte Cooper Sterry). After my birth, mother suffered from a severe spinal hernia, completely destroying her career. Mother truly loves me more than anything; however I do notice her occasional, swift, infected glances at me, screaming that it was my fault…

As we reached my father’s house after half-an-hour of silence I entered what would be my home of many years.