“Study harder next time, Kenny”
My science teacher looked at me with sympathetic eyes as she handed back my test covered in red pen marks. A giant ‘67’ sat at the top of the page. I shifted in my seat and put my test back into my folder, watching the other students smile at the number on top of their paper. I can’t remember the last time I had smiled like that when I received a test back. Smiled the way that Annie smiles. An A+ student, long brown hair, and the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen. It’s almost as if the sky and the ocean is trapped inside her eyes, bringing its beauty into her. I sat there thinking, when the bell rang for my next class. I slowly began to gather my books to get to my next class. People always said that the faster you get to your next class, the faster you get home. But get home to do what? More reading? More exercise? More math? I have, like, one friend. John Roberts. No girlfriend either. Just me, my mom, and John. For the most part, I’m a normal kid. I'm 17, normally fit, 5’8”, blue eyes, (not as blue as Annie’s, of course) and brown hair.

Math. My favorite subject. I am good at math, but not anything else. I sit in my seat and watch the other kids sit on top of their desks doing immature things such as flying paper airplanes, or talking and talking mindlessly. I roll my eyes at their silly behavior. As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Simmons quietly scolded them for “interrupting the class time.” They smirk at each other, as if to make fun of Mrs. Simmons, a gentle old lady. She teaches us about taxes and markups and commission and everything you can think of.

I sit on the bus, alone, as always. I stare out the blurry window filled with rain as I bump around on the rocky bus. As it screeches to a halt, I slowly make my way down the long aisle of the bus with my head down. I walk to my house and up the short driveway. I fumble with the keys and step into the house. I walk over to the kitchen, and see that my mom is waiting for me. She is at the kitchen table with her head down. I run over and ask her what’s wrong. She slowly lifts her head, and with tears in her eyes, the only words she says are “it’s your father.”
My father. I never really met him. He abandoned my mother and I when I was just 2 years old. I guess they never really got divorced, but they sure don't talk to each other anymore. I haven’t heard from my dad since one week after he left. He wanted to tell my mom that he wasn't sorry, had found a new girlfriend, and was much happier. He said they gambled together too. My mother hated gambling and it was one of the reasons she didn't want to be with him anymore.  She saw him at the door when he came and immediately hid me in her room. She didn't want him to see that she was struggling to take care of me without him. He did come looking for me, but she told him I was happy, healthy, and at daycare. All three were lies. I was interested in some toy, so I didn't cry, but I was far from happy and healthy. We lived in a falling-apart house barely big enough for the both of us, and we maybe gathered enough money to go to the grocery store once every other week. My mom works two jobs now and we are much more stable financially.

And right now my mother is crying at the tiny kitchen table about my father. I really don't dislike him, I never actually knew him. Whenever someone mentions him, I think about that. I wish I did know him. I wish my parents were together. I wish a lot of things. Back to my mom, well, she’s pretty out of it. She keeps telling me over and over some mumbling about my dad. When I finally get her to calm down, she tells me that he’s coming back.
I feel like I’m going to pass out. My jaw drops down and my eyes pop out of my head. I stumble to a chair and heavily sit down on it.
My dad is coming back. I don't know what to do. I haven’t seen or talked to him since I was two years old. I pace back and forth in our tiny kitchen while my mom cries in panic. I understand that she doesn't want him to come, but I tried to tell her that it is not that big of a deal. It didn't work.
One Tuesday morning, as I was just about to leave for school, a black pickup truck blasting rock music comes rumbling up the driveway. A giant, filthy-looking man slams the car door with a cigarette in his mouth. He is covered in tattoos and has a shaved head. He looks awfully scary. My mom is still in the kitchen cooking breakfast for us, and I can't decide if I should tell her or let her find out herself. I find out it is too late for that when he pounds desperately on the front door. I hesitantly open it and he barges in as soon as there is enough room for him to fit through the door. I am speechless as he walks right past me without glancing at me or anything for one second. He looks so determined to do whatever he is going to. As soon as he walks by me a gust of smoke-filled air fills my lungs. I follow him into the kitchen and his heavy footsteps make my mother turn around. She drops the two cups of orange juice she was holding onto the floor. The man didn't even flinch.
“It’s him. Your father” My mother said. He turns to me and looks at me for the first time since he came in, put his hands square on my shoulders, and says
“My son.” And pulls me into a tight embrace.