I did not hear from my ex-fiancee or his sister thereafter but he was in the back of my mind. It was only a month after breaking off the engagement that we met with my husband's family. I knew I needed to move on but I was paralyzed with empathy. I imagined daily what he was going through and how he was getting on with his life. I could not help it.
With every sound of the phone, I would jump a hundred feet in the air--waiting, expecting it to be 'them'. Who the hell was 'them'? The gang. The one that was coming for me. I did not know when they would appear but I envisioned their group. Squeeze me?
I was always one to have a vivid imagination. Concocting stories and images in my mind and being absolutely sure that they would come to fruition. I expected him to show up on my doorstep, with his entire extended family and friends, armed with bats and lit torches, demanding I come to the door and face the music. He knew where I lived so anything could have happened. I once confessed my fears over the phone to a girlfriend in a very animated fashion, which was unfortunately overheard by my father in the next room. When I put down the phone, he came over and guided me by the elbow to sit with him.
"Why are you so nervous? It is over. The deed is done. Now get over it and move on with your life," he exclaimed. I bit my lip and thought he would never understand my feelings. Even after breaking the engagement and explaining it to my ex-fiancee, I felt remorseful and guilty. My father's nonchalance towards the situation made me feel like throwing the whole incident in his face. You made me do this. You never wanted it to happen my way--just another thing in my life that you could control. And now you have your wish and it does not affect you one bit!
There were many nights I would start writing him a letter. A letter of apology. I was never good at confrontation but arm me with a paper and pen, and I could write an essay defending my position. But each time I tried, I crumpled the paper and threw it in the trashbin. It was no use. I knew what I did was wrong even though my heart was against it. I could not help my empathy. It was a trait I inherited after my mom died. You see, I had changed drastically. And her death was my initiation into the next stage of my life. I was selfish, all-knowing, stubborn, unsympathetic and gave no regard to others and their emotions. Your typical eighteen year old. Until this day, my father insists that I still carry that stubborn streak. But I refute this impression. Because before, I just didn't care.
A few weeks before she passed, I had a monumental fight with my father about university. He refused to let me go away to study.
"There is a university which is a 20 minute drive away. Why don't you go there?" he demanded while my mother sat in silence, listening. "If you go away, it is unstructured supervision!"
"That is why I need to get out of here! I am going to work this summer and pay for my residence. All I need is the tuition." I sat back and folded my arms--my stance of resistance. My mother picked up her knitting and furrowed her brow.
"You want to leave because you cannot stand living here?" The vein in his head started to pulsate and his eyes were bulging at this point.
"That's right! No one can live with you! I am not going to grow in this environment where there is so much control and no freedom. You are like the Pakistani government. Well, guess what? This is Canada. And if you came here to give me a better life, then you better just let ME live it!" I was standing now throwing my arms in the air, red in the face. My mother put her knitting down and looked at both of us while shaking her head. "Just let her go," she quietly said to my father.
Without looking at her, my father stood up and walked over to me. I was startled and thought he was going to strike me. My mother nervously moved in her seat. With his finger raised and pointed directly in my face, he made his decision--loud and clear.
"You will go away to university over my dead body!" His finger was shaking out of anger and I was sneering back at him, shaking with anger. In my peripheral vision, I spotted my mother looking at me, with tears in her eyes.
"We will see about that!" and I stormed out of the room. His words, his ideas, his demands meant nothing to me. This was not about him.
Little did he know, a week later, it would not be over his dead body...but my mother's.
Without her in my life, I started to care...and that is when my initiation began.
No comments:
Post a Comment