• Home
  • /Family
  • /The Secret Tears of a Butterfly (Part 1)
The Secret Tears of a Butterfly (Part 1)

The Secret Tears of a Butterfly (Part 1)

The Secret Tears of a Butterfly


Things were really different at home and for a while. It was very quiet.  My mother and sister cried a lot. I was deeply depressed, growing empty, and angry by each day my father was gone. Confusion began to grow bigger than everything I was feeling all together. I was left trying to figure out why this kind of thing could happen to us. What was once a family became only fragments of bitter memories and an extreme amount of pain. My father would come by and pick up my sister and I every other weekend in the beginning, but that routine quickly diminished. Visits from my father began to become very scarce. Weeks would go by before we would see him, and when he would finally show up, my mother would be so angry with him for not coming sooner, they would argue for thirty minutes before my sister and I were able to leave. This scenario became the story of our lives.

About four months after my parents divorced I saw my father less and less, and my behavior grew worse and worse. I would hear about my father going to the local cleaners less than a half a mile away from where I was and did not come by to see me and my sister. We heard from neighbors who lived right across the street that my father had come by, but he didn’t come over to see us. This is when my true pain began. I felt rejected, clueless, and empty. “How could he be so close and not come to see us?”- Was the question that I asked myself over and over. I cried until my face was swollen, and had no more energy left in me. The kind of pain I felt was like someone had died. All the respect my father had coming from me was lost, and my care and concern for everything including life were none existent. If my father could leave and go on with his life, be as close as the cleaners or our neighbors house across the street, and not give a damn or rats ass about coming to see me and my sister… I didn’t give a damn about anything.

One day coming home from school for whatever reason I decided to go through the back yard to come into the house. As I got closer to the back patio I could hear my mother crying and the voice of our next door neighbor consoling her. I also heard my father’s voice and some unrecognizable voice I’d never heard before. They were listening to a recording. It was a recorded conversation with my father and a woman. Hurt by what I was hearing from the recording and listening to my mother cry, I walked back to the front of my house and sat on the porch for a while before going into the house. My mother never knew of what I heard.

The next day after coming home from school, I was home alone. My mother was at the gym and there was more than enough time to look for the tape that caused her to cry. When I found the tape I took it to my room, put it in my stereo, sat on my bed and listened. I was wrong for what I was doing, but I wanted to know what made my mother cry the way she did. The things I heard were definitely not for the ears of a 14 year old. My father told the woman he and my mother were basically not together anymore and he was sleeping on the couch! What a lying ass! As far as I knew my father never slept on the couch. As the tape played the woman told my father they would have to get tested for H.I.V. before she would sleep with him. Before my father could return an answer to her demand, I could hear me ask my father, “Daddy, can me and Ebony walk to the store?” This was the day I asked to go to the store and got caught stealing; stealing to get his or my mother’s attention.  The attention I was seeking from my father was given to a home wrecker! Angry, hurt, baffled, and feeling empty, the tape was put back where I got it from, and I cried until my cry turned into weeping and eventually fell off to sleep.



Continue reading on Page 6

Leave a Reply & Tell Us Your Thoughts!

Copyright Alert!

“This copyrighted material is presented by authority of the Author. It may not be reproduced or retransmitted in any form, and the accounts and descriptions of this writing may not be disseminated without express written consent.”