I rose from my mother’s bed and walked toward the mirror. I felt tears coming on. Not today, please. Then it went away.
Just when I thought I was safe, my mother blurted out, “He has a daughter, too. Or are there two?”
I let out a snarky two-second laugh just to show I was unfazed and waited for my mom to leave the room. When she did, I moved to my cousin’s room that had once been mine. Then I cried; and in the mirror next to the bed I saw how pathetic I looked. Nope. You’re fabulous. You got this. I, like every lead character in an empowering chick flick I could recall, went window shopping and café-hopping shortly after that.
That was the day I realized my competitive streak. What if these potential stepsisters are more beautiful than I am, or smarter and more privileged? I couldn’t think of a single reason why I would want to meet them.
***
I was left feeling stupid for not having demanded more information when it was normal to do so. As a kid, wanting to know who your father is natural. As a young adult, it seems dramatic and unnecessary. Yet I couldn’t shake the curiosity. There was also the pressure of wanting to hold on to something. A label, perhaps. Or family roots.
Eid gave me the chance to look at family pictures, searching for the face of my supposed celebrity cousin. I scrolled upon pictures of different twenty-something girls, some of whom are blessed with thousands of followers. I myself have less than 400 followers, which classifies me as an unsociableperson. I don’t like these girls already. I put my phone down, held it again, frantically comparing my nose and eyes to theirs and repeated the process again and again.
Read also: The Warrior’s Sword – Short Story by Eko Triono (The Jakarta Post, March 12, 2018)
I stared at one picture of a girl whose facial features seemed to correspond well with my mother’s descriptions of my father. So I accessed her digital photo albums, hoping to find my father’s face among the unfamiliar faces—but the drama I waited for did not materialize. Nothing came up. Nevermind, I thought.
What’s the use of digging through somebody’s past when that somebody doesn’t even want to, nor have the goodwill to, connect with you? And what would I say to him, anyway? Would a simple greeting like “Hey dad” do any good?
Probably not.
As more and more of my mother’s family came to visit our house for Eid celebrations, I whisked away the thought of ever finding or searching for my father and his daughters. Or, to be precise, my imaginary parent and siblings.
