Speak Up

When I was in the fifth grade, I answered a phone call from my grandpa. He didn't talk for very long, sounded stressed, and only wanted to talk to my mom. She wasn't there, but I told him I'd have her call him back. When I saw my mom later, I asked her what the deal was, and she said my dad was in jail. I was in shock, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been, he had been to jail once before. I asked her why, and she paused. After the pause, she told me quietly that my dad had had a problem with drugs for a very long time. Everything in my life suddenly clicked. I didn't know a whole lot about drugs, but I knew they were expensive, bad, and made you act weird. So THAT'S why my parents got divorced. So THAT'S why my dad never had any money. So THAT'S why he slept all the time, why he took me to weird people's house for hours while he sat in a back room with them doing God-knows-what. I cried for a long time. When he called me from jail, I asked him why he would do this to me, why he hated me, and I might have told him that I hated him, too. I'm finishing my freshman year of high school now. We've made up, and I've forgiven him. I go to see him every three months. But he'll never see me dance. He'll never see me play in a concert. He'll never see me graduate. He'll never be able to rewind life and watch his only child grow up. My dad won't ever be able to get back what he's missed.