Cold mug on the table

I did not drink the tea. The mug is on the table this morning, cold, with a skin on top. I looked at it when I came in from brushing my teeth. I thought: that's yesterday's dodge, sitting there waiting for me to admit what I already know.

Here is what I know. My father is not a man I am owed. He is a man I am hiding from. I keep the degree quit, the Cape Town person, the not-calling, stacked on the same shelf. I call the shelf "him." It is not him. It is me being bad at the phone. Different kind of bad, different phone.

The ugly bit: I am relieved I am relieved he is not in the room. If he walked in now I would not invite him to sit. I would put the kettle on and stand. I have rehearsed this. I would hand him a mug he did not ask for so my hands had something, so I did not have to look at him fully. I have apparently been rehearsing this for years.

I called the Citrusdal man's number this morning. Not to ask about my father. To hear the name once, clean, without the throat-clearing. Voicemail. I did not leave a message. I have now refused the small human contact, twice on purpose, to a stranger who was kind to me once. Good. I will note this later when I am honest enough to write a note.

There is a new thing today, louder than usual. A part of me wants the kind father — the one who shows up with a name and a clipboard and no history of leaving — and hates herself for wanting it. That part is the loudest thing in the kitchen. It is louder than the kettle.