I walk in through the screechy door onto the crowded screen porch. Garden gnomes scatter the house along with prized garage sale purchases. Copious amounts of pointless boxed food fill the basement. Sounds of sizzling bratwurst and the sweet aroma of potato salad waft throughout the halls. A little white-haired women quickly argues in German over the phone to save a few cents on her calling card. This cat covered home is what I miss. That vibrant lady is who I loved.

In contrast, I do not miss everything that came along with her. I did not love the newly built townhouse sitting in the very back of a perfectly paved neighborhood. Its fake wood floors would not warm up no matter how high the heat was set. All the gray toned furniture and blank white walls felt more like an appliance store than a home. My third floor bedroom featured only a barely slept in bed and an unplugged alarm clock. Wood pieces of a never to be built baby crib occupied my closet along with his extra clothes. A few pictures of him hung, lonely on the hallway walls. This was his home.

His bald head always shined almost as much as his dress shoes as he would pace around a room. His eyes darted back and forth when he was caught in the middle of an elaborate lie. He was fueled by watching others hurt and felt no guilt. His gaze never managed to quite make it high enough up to meet a girl’s eyes, and hand would fall past her lower back. He was the type of guy I would have (and believe me wish I had) run away from the minute I saw him; that is, if he was not my father.

I only visited him on weekends, but I dreaded those mere two days a week more than anything. As his freshly-washed white car would speed up the overly steep driveway, my stomach would drop. My mind raced for an excuse. A reason to not go with him, a reason to not sit up clenching my covers and shuddering at any noise all night, scared to sleep. A reason to subconsciously only wear baggy clothes because I fearfully knew his eyes would wander. A reason to not be afraid.

The single salvation of those horrible visits was the chance to see my Oma, his mother. Her heavy German accent would melt with joy when she spoke to me. She would constantly push another serving of homemade potato salad and bratwurst onto our full plates. Playing dominos across her messy screen porch floor always brought a smile to my face. Despite how much I loved her, I have learned that everything that came with her weighed me down too much. I still feel as though I carry his 200 lbs, but I no longer have to see it.