Auteur Narrative

Since I was a child, I’d always wondered what it would be like having a father. Everyone else had one. I used to sit for ages at times to think how fun it would be to have someone to go on fishing trips with or just to play with. I felt odd when kids at school talked about what their fathers had bought them and what they did with them on the weekend. It was strange. I did feel pretty left out but it wasn’t as if my mother didn’t try at all. I thought she tried pretty hard to play both roles in the play. But it just wasn’t the same.

It all started when I was about seven. My innocence meant that my mother took for granted I didn’t need a father. When overhearing my mother’s conversations, I would often hear her colleagues tell her that I needed a father or a more masculine figure in my life. They tried and tried to get my mother dating but it didn’t work at all. She went out to dinner with this man who I had never seen and he turned out to be a thief with a really bad criminal record. After that, my mother never saw men. She was an artist but she didn’t earn much so she had a second job at a bakery.

I was nearly eight years old when she saw the effects of this. In stories at school I couldn’t write about fathers. But she didn’t know about these kinds of things until my first ever speaking competition and my encouraging mother did everything she could to come and watch me. It was quite daunting. In the class rounds I did pretty badly. So I did everything I could because I had never spoken in front of a big audience before. I practiced nearly everyday and onn the day, I wasn’t scared at all. My mother felt pretty confident that I had a good chance of winning. She told me I was great. I stood confused. Every mother has to say that to her child.

My name was called first as I was the youngest of the finalists. I carefully walked to the hat at the far corner of the stage. I closed my eyes and picked one of the bottom ones hoping it would be a good topic. Little did I know it would wipe away the smile on my mother’s face like steel wool on a stove drowning in grime. I didn’t look at it yet. I walked to the centre of the stage. Unfolding the crisp folds of the cardboards, I was convinced I could talk about anything. I had no idea about the shock I would get when I read those six letters typed in Times New Roman font for conveniance. The font didn’t matter; I would get the same shivers if it was graffitied on a brick wall. It said father. The word I had no idea about. I stood there confused. I had no idea what to say. The judges just looked at me after fifteen seconds had finished. I just stood there in a daze. Why was it me that got this topic out of all? I had twenty seconds left and I hadn’t said a word. I started by saying “A father isвЂ¦Ð²Ð‚Ñœ Then I stumbled like politicians do when they can’t admit their mistakes. I paused and then repeated louder the words but nothing came out of my mouth. It was suddenly dry. I could see tears forming in my mothers eyes. It was as if the whole audience was made of clouds and my mother’s was the only one raining. Before you could say chick pea, there were these huge wails and nose-clearing noises from my mum. I felt sorrier for her than embarassed by her. I couldn’t take it. I walked off the stage knowing that the audience was watching and ran to my mother and gave her a hug. I knew she felt guilty. I didn’t say anything afraid that she would let all her emotions out negatively.

The drive home was even worse. Again, I didn’t say anything. The silence was sharp. I was scared that if I made a noise, it would stab me in the back. We left before the competition ended and I really would have liked to see the other kids but that was out of the question. I didn’t talk to my mother for a few hours. At night, I gave her a hug before going to bed. I could feel her presence in the study that was next to my room. There was something in her expression that worried my. On the way back from the competition, she looked like a worn bath mat that had been stepped on