Good Intentions

by Jesus F10

Good intentions, they only go so far. But how can you aim frustration at a man who never intends harm? The answer to that question arrived several years after they announced the divorce to me. Looking back, I prefer the unsatisfying rationalization I created than the truth I learned.

I always thought I was old enough to understand, mature enough to be aware of all the factors going into their decision. With each passing year, and several intervals in between, these two characters seemed to reinvent themselves in front of my eyes. Of course I know it wasn’t them changing; I was the one who continued to hit milestones. Graduating high school, getting into an exceptional college, having a serious long term relationship, buying a car, and many more life altering events helped me to gain understanding of adulthood and my parents alike. Along with heaps of new responsibility, my entire family closed the gap between generations. No one censored themselves anymore; my parents were not the only people in my life transforming. But that is the recent past; I used to be blind to all activity of adults around.

It would be hard to believe someone if they said they never heard yelling in their house. Arguments may vary to the extremes between households, but they do exist everywhere. As a young child, my parents sheltered me from their heated disagreements as best they could, and they were pretty successful. Unfortunately, the walls weren’t always thick enough, and occasionally I heard their raised voices in an argument. A shockwave would rush down my body, leaving dread in my stomach and confusion wandering my mind. As a young boy of less than ten, understanding still sat out of my reach.

Time flowed linearly, but the arguments increased exponentially. Not only did my increasing age cause a decrease in censorship, but the mutual lack of patience continually shortened its wick into the explosive fireworks that erupted into my parent’s battles. And those fireworks grew in spectacle and danger as well. Evident to all inside the household, including myself, divorce was inevitable. All I hoped for was good timing; that they could hold it together until I left the house and got into college. That way I didn’t have a front row seat to the disputes, the legal issues, and the disgusting mess divorced caused. Most importantly, I couldn’t bear the thought of picking sides.

I finally became a teenager, and along with this age I received admission to view my parent’s marital issues like never before. I can vividly remember a scene that repeated itself more times than I want to remember: My father stood in front of the TV, as he did with all his free time. Storming down the stairs with the hustle and bustle of household chores, my mother rushed around struggling to keep our home in order. Of course, time always allowed for a quick, nagging comment.

“Rob, did you fix the shelf downstairs yet?”

As he inhaled deeply to try and stay calm, my father replied, “No, I didn’t. I was waiting for a commercial.”

“That shelf has sat there for over two weeks now, and you still haven’t cleaned the bathroom like you said you would. Hair is still in the sink. Oh, and what about the stairs, you…”

And there they’d go, sprinting out of the gates into the first turn. It never ceased to astonish me how my mother carried on for what could be an eternity if you didn’t stop her. Nor could I understand how my father could be so absent-minded. He always intended to do his work, and he always gave his word. With that much nagging, who could forget? On the other hand, how could good intentions infuriate someone so much? My mother never seemed to cut him slack, even though he never purposefully dodged what she wanted him to do.

From my current perspective, it should have seemed obvious that what I viewed on the surface didn’t encompass the whole issue. Soon I learned how atrocious my father’s monetary habits were. Of course, he never intended any harm; he just wanted the best for his family, but didn’t necessarily keep track of all his expenses. The debt my father accumulated deposited itself directly as weight on my mother’s mind. She ran around like a Mayan woman with a basket on her head, attempting to collect exceptionally dense receipts falling from the sky. Even when he had worked overtime and 6 days a week, it was never enough to cease the disputes. Within a year of observing the worsening relationship, I got that tragic front row seat that I had so hoped to avoid.

That disgusting mess came with full force. After losing his job, my father had nowhere to go. We had to make due, so my estranged parents and myself were forced to live in the same home, where avoiding each other proved to be more difficult than anybody had wanted. The size of our home inhibited all invasion tactics; moving from one area to another brought with it a heavy chance of seeing someone else. The condominium may have been spacious in terms of square footage, but the single staircase that connected all four floors seemed to always to carry travelers. My father set up shop in the living room; he now slept on the couch where his eyes constantly fell upon the TV. Unfortunately, the kitchen laid directly to the left, with only a belly-high wall in between the rooms. Inadvertently, this created several confrontations because of the overlap in domains. In addition, my mother’s beloved garden and patio lay out back, behind the sliding glass door, and to get there, she had to cross my father’s line of vision of the TV. And even though sometimes periods of peace enveloped this home, they were few and far between. I mainly remained in my own bedroom, especially when I saw a conflict arising. Unfortunately, this room happened to be right next to the heavily traveled stairs on the third floor. Even if it was somewhere else in the small household, droning my parents’ arguments out was always a challenge.

It took many trips, and I tried my hardest not to be around while it was happening, but watching my dad walk out the door at some point was inevitable. The light from the monitor shone upon my face as I sat at the computer desk, scrolling through Facebook’s most recent activity. To my right, I could see the front door out of my peripherals revolving as my father carried his possessions into his burgundy suburban parked directly out front. Though most of these items were coming from the basement, he forgot some from the bedroom upstairs. With the single staircase right next to the computer desk, he squeezes by during his ascent. Coming back downstairs, his steel-toe work boots causing heavy thud sounds with each step and arms full of belongings from his nightstand, he leans over and kisses me on the top of the head. I turn and gaze as he swiftly walks down the stairs, watching his flannel float outward and listening to his dog tags and keys bang together around his neck. And without any other options, my father of over 50 years old resorted to moving back with his parents right before I got my license. The condo had finally held too much conflict within its tiny walls and something had to change. Unemployed, living with his parents, and rapidly deteriorating credit, my father did his best to be optimistic. I admired him for this, and I admired his intentions. I looked upon him with something similar to pity; he never meant any harm, and life had thrown him curve balls at every at-bat for what seemed like decades. With this new found pity, and the freedom of owning my own vehicle, I got to choose which side of the family to spend holidays with. Although it was much more hassle, I commonly decided to stop by both. That was until I brought up something with my mother that I never thought I would be bold enough to.

Sitting at the computer desk immediately to the right of the dining room table where my mother sat, I casually conversed with her about the typical day at work for both of us on a warm humid summer day. Wearing only a towel from my shower, discussion of working out at the gym and spending time with friends eventually converged to the topic of my father. At one point I mustered up the courage to ask a question I had been dying to know the answer too for several years.

“Hey Mom? I just don’t understand. How can you feel so much rage, contempt, and frustration with Dad? He never means harm; he always has good intentions. I guess the real question is, why did you divorce him for being absent minded?”

With a heavy sigh and a shift of her seat, my mother sat for a while, looking pensive. With a long face, she turned to me and replied, “I know what you mean. It was infuriating always having to be on his case for stuff, and we most certainly argued about it, but that is not what pushed the relationship off the cliff. I decided to get a divorce after I found out he had been cheating on me on and off for about 3 years. “

A shockwave rushed down my body, leaving a feeling of dread in my stomach and confusion wandering my mind. I couldn’t grasp the sound waves my ears had picked up and that my brain had interpreted. After finally coming to terms with this information, I still couldn’t decide what to ever say to my father, but it made picking sides quite clear to me. I always knew that everyone was fallible, but my father taught me the depressing lesson that not even the most beloved people in your life always have good intentions.