August the fourth. Eighteen years ago. That’s when I came in the world. A remarkable day. Especially when you know who I am… but you'll figure it out later. Let me tell you something about my parents first.
Two months before I was born, my parents got married, and it seems that they would live happily ever after. Well, not the ideal life if you would ask my dad. He always wanted to join the Wonderbolts. He’d be the first one in his family. He was raised in a poor family with two sisters, one brother, a caring mom and a alcoholic dad. My dad said he would live his dream when he’s thirty. He always got turned down by his mother, but he's still got some time left. Currently, he's twenty-two.
My mom came from a fairly rich family. Her father was a lawyer and her mother was… erm… I actually forgot.
Anyways, my dad gave up his dream and his studies to be with my mother. They even bought a bar although my dad didn’t want or need it.
Okay, enough history. Let’s talk about something else. A week after the wedding. That’s a good start.
The doctor said that my mom needed rest during her pregnancy. So she did. Meanwhile, my dad took care of the bar all by himself. He did the cleaning, serving, finances, and other crap that’s not interesting. But on that Sunday, he was finally free. He went to his parents for a barbeque. He had a couple of drinks, but then, he got a call from my mother. She was at the hospital. Giving birth. That’s right, to me. So my dad ran to a taxi, like his life depended on it. Also, that Sunday was coincidentally the last day of the fair. So it was extra busy in the small village where my grandparents lived. Which was why he was too late to reach the hospital. When he finally got there, I already laid in my mothers hooves. I was sleeping (with the stress I was in) until my dad picked my up and tried to lull me, but instead, I broke in tears. They had to find a good name. My mom couldn't find one, so my dad had to chose.
No, I’m not going to reveal my name yet.
A few days later, we were back home. In the bar. My mom had to recover for a few days after my birth, so she slept most of the time. That made it extra heavy for my dad. Luckily, my grandmother (my dad’s mom) came over and helped him out a bit.
You would think that a child would make the relationship tighter and stronger. Well, this is an exception. My mom became a lazy mare. She literally laid whole day in the sofa watching TV. You would think that she would take care of her now one year old kid, but she didn’t. I laid in my self made play corner, right behind my mother. Now, I hear you thinking ‘which mother wouldn’t take care of her child?’ answer, my mom.
Evidence? Enough. (Extra info, my dad was working in the bar from seven AM to one AM. six days in a week. We was the only one who worked in the bar.)
When I deeded some food, my dad dropped everything and gave it to me. When I had a poopy diaper, my dad cleaned it up. When I was crying, my dad comforted me. And my mother? When she wasn’t laying in the sofa, means that she was watching the bar while my dad was with me. But even then, she did nothing. Not even serving… oh wait, I’m lying. She did something. She brought the rent cheques to the bank.
What do you think now? 'Your mom was lazy...but at least she cared about you. Or else she would put you in the kitchen or something, so you won’t disturb her during the TV-shows.'
Okay then. This is an other anecdote I heard. When I was one and a half, my dad worked his only free day in another tavern. To get extra money. So, my mother would go to the tavern as well, you know, to see my dad. How did we get there? By bike of course...in mid winter. A few wet pieces of clothes, eight kilometres with a filled diaper. My only thoughts in that trip were, hold on: stay that way, so my dad could feed me and give me a clean diaper. Although I have to say, the poop was comfortable.
Convinced? That’s what I thought. So, needles to say, at one point, they broke up. I'll tell you about the evening they decided it.
A warm morning in July. My dad woke up in an empty bed. It’s strange that a lazy person would be awake at four. But, hey, maybe she was at the bathroom. Or… nope, never mind, she was gone. My dad, worried as hell, brought me to my grandmother's and started looking for my mom. After a whole day of looking around, my dad gave up. He finally went home and found his wife on the couch. Then, all hell broke lose; my mom had cheated on him.
All in a row, we have a uncaring mom, lazy as fuck, that cheats on her own husband. Impressive huh?
So, my mom is away now. Things have started to look better. My corner with toys was moved to the one of the corners in the bar. On the right spot, so my dad could always see me. From Monday, till Friday, my grandmother took care of me. So you can say I’m actually raised by my grandparents. I learned how to talk, walk, to eat, to poop on a toilet, how to use my little wings to get to the candy drawer, and that kind of stuff. It went good for six months. But then, a new disappointment came up. Remember the only thing my mom had to do? deliver the rent cheques? Well, apparently, she never did. One million bits. One million bits did my dad had to pay. One million! In less then a month. He couldn’t blame my mother for this, because they are divorced, so everything was set on my his name. (It was one million BEF. That’s 25 000 euro or +- 34 883. 75$!)
He then decided to make an arrangement. He sold his bar, and went back to his mother. He made it so that he would get one year to pay the rent back.
My dad worked every day, literally. Everyday, morning till night. So that meant that I would see my dad even less now. After a year, he fully paid back the banks. He was even able to rent a small house. It was just my dad and me. I was four when we moved in. I was with my grandparents when my dad had to work. But everything was fine if my dad wasn’t so depressed. Seriously. He actually became suicidal, although, there was one thing that kept him going. Me. He would play the same song, each evening, three times in a row. ‘My boy,' by Elvis Presley.
Dangit, now you know my gender.
I was five when I started to see my mother again. Each Friday, she picked me up and Sunday evening, she brought me back. Every Friday, my dad had to say goodbye to me. It tore his heart apart as well as mine when that happened. So each Friday, he got drunk. Each time in the same bar. All this had one advantage. He met another girl. I don’t have much details about there meeting, and dating, but I can tell you how I met her.
I was just six years old. Monday evening at 9 PM.
I was playing with my wooden cubes. Very difficult to lift when you have hoofs. Someone knocked at the door, my father opened it, and there she stood. A gold-brown earth pony, with a deep brown mane stood there in the doorway. She smiled sweetly to me. She was surprised to see me up so late. My father offered something to drink to the new mare. He went to the kitchen to get something to eat. And when he came back, me and the new mare played with the wooden cubes, together.
Oh, and another small anecdote. My new ‘mother’ had a little niece, which was the same age as me. So when we went for a school trip or whatever the ordeal, my new ‘mother’ came with us. She used her niece as an excuse to see me as well. Isn’t that kind?
In another time, (My life is boring, so I skip the boring parts so I can talk about the more interesting ones. The parts that mostly prove either love or hate.) I was in the first year of the elementary school. And my real mom couldn’t (reason: didn’t want to) come to my school for my report marks. So my new ‘mom’ had to come, because my dad had to work. And you know what my teacher said? “I don’t understand your son. On Monday, he’s the most annoying kid we can have, and on Friday, he’s the most kind child we have. Explain to me.” What can I say. My real mother pissed me off, and I was angry. After a while, it was so bad that I would hide myself, each Friday evening, so I didn’t had to go to my real mom.
What else can I say? Oh yeah. I was seven. Almost eight. My father and my new ‘mom’… (To make things clear, on age seven, I called my father’s girlfriend mommy.) It’s a fact, but that makes it easy for you to understand about who I’m talking about. Soooo… my father and mommy came to my room. They had to ask me something. They wanted to have a baby. Now a normal kid would say ‘Yay! A new brother or sister to play with!’ but all I did was cry. I was so traumatized about what happened with my first mother… I thought that when they had a baby, that my new mommy would leave us too. That we would have to go trough the same mess again. Eventually, I went to my mommy and said the following. ‘I know your not my real mom, but I think you love me more than my real mom does.’ My new mommy asked me it’s alright then, if they had a baby… and I nodded.
Flash forward. I was eleven. My real mom had some trouble. She hadn’t paid the alimentation for a while (alimentation is the money that real mom had to pay to my dad to feed me, and to buy me new clothes and stuff). She had to pay eighty thousand bits! (2 000 euro 2790.70 $) so my father had put her for a choice. It was paying the bills, or never see me again. She took the last choice. So actually she sold me for bits. Bits! According to her enthusiasm, she would have done it for less. That was the last time I saw my real mom. It’s been seven years since then and I never got any message from her. I tried to contact her, but I had no success.
Three years later I had an appendicitis. I was really sick. I was sick for three whole days. But I remained strong, so I didn't decide complain about my sickness. But after three days, I finally admitted that I didn’t feel well. So we went to the hospital. I had to go ‘under the knife’ like we say. They had to give me surgery. We tried to contact my real mom to say that I was sick and in the hospital; that I could die because I was too stubborn to tell them immediately that there was something wrong. But guess what? My real mom ignored me.
Flash back to age eight. I wanted to have a hobby. Something like football. Although my real mom never wanted to go with me, because it was in the weekends.
Summer vacation, when I was by my mom, she had dumped me in a kinder garden, so she could go shopping.
Oh wait, something positive. When my real mom adopted a dog, I chose the name. I called him Spike. (MLP FiM didn’t existed back then.)
My mom had met someone else now too. A friendly, but quiet guy. They had two children, and as far as I know, she dumped him and the two girls…
There are a lot of more negative things to tell. What I'm trying to say is that my real mom, never loved me, ditched me for any prise, ignored me and never cared about me.
True, my dad had hard times too. But I carry the trauma. Even now, I cry sometimes. I cry myself asleep with the same question. “Why, oh why, don’t you love me, mommy?"
Although. I’m afraid that this question, stays a question.
Epilogue:
There are some theories about why my mom never loved me. Well, actually, just two. One of them is that my mom wanted a daughter instead of a son. (And no, she couldn't apply rule 63 here.) and the second one is that I looked to much like my father. My mother hates my father now, so, I'm guessing that’s why she would hate me too.
As you can see, my parents were are not very satisfying, but it'll have to do.
Oh. I almost forgot to tell you my name. It’s me. The author
