4 - Put the Weight Down

4

Put the Weight Down

H aving my dad as my coach has never gotten easier.

I'm sure someone more intelligent with a degree in psychology or something could take one glance at our relationship and have a roadmap of what my childhood was like compared to Sophia's. I'm not saying we have a bad relationship or that I have it worse than others, but it's different and hard in its own right.

Generally, I believe we all have a bad habit of falling into the burden of comparison. In our looks, our talents, in our lives. Specifically that because someone else has it worse, by no means, under no circumstance, are you allowed to complain. And it's a trap—because it leads you down a rabbit hole of telling yourself to grow up, to be thankful, even under the weight of your own heavy clouds all because they're lighter than someone else's.

"Can we take a break?" I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand.

Dad glances at me. "You think you got everything? Formations, pass routes, sneak plays?" I nod. "Top players? And the quick ones with lazy footwork?"

Sighing, I roll my eyes. "Yes. They're a professional team. Just like us. I know the players. I know about the players. I've seen the tape. This," I say, motioning, "isn't necessary." Especially not when we've already studied this film as a team.

It's always been like this. When I was kid, it seemed fun—extra passes or touches after practices, running together, and then going to get Italian water ice or seeing a movie together. Then I got older, and it felt nitpicky, from helping me improve to all the ways I was failing to be the best. And compared to Sophia, who never played sports in her life, who never developed a compulsion to be competitive, and who seemed to get his love just the same, I felt I had to earn it. Even though realistically, anyone would say Dad and I are closer, and we are.

I've just always felt that to keep that spot, I had to compete for it.

We make eye contact, and I school my face into innocence. One of the hardest parts about this facet of our relationship is not always knowing when it's going to switch. One second, he's my coach, the next my dad. And after that, my friend. The daughter he calls when life isn't going his way and the daughter he used to do everything with. But also, the daughter he doesn't fully realize is now grown up. And that her time— my time—isn't dedicated to him. So, he reverts into the coach or the father because those roles are consistent.

"Let's wrap it up for the day then."

Exhaling, I sit back, eyes roaming around my dad's place. He doesn't live far from Mom, even though they've been separated since the day Sophia told them she was pregnant at eighteen. It was a strange day, my parents telling me their relationship was ending, while my sister's younger yet healthier relationship was thriving and making me an aunt.

His space is exactly how it's always been. Framed photographs he's had since I was a kid, the same collages of baby photos, his collection of knick-knacks from all the places he lived, mixed in with the books and DVDs on tall wooden bookshelves. It's tasteful and warm. Collections of the person he was mixed with the person he is now.

My dad is hard to read sometimes—likes to keep to himself, doesn't like to be vulnerable, all the wonderful things I share—but he also puts pieces of himself into his space, the place where he feels safe. Here, it's easy to get a glimpse into who he is and what he loves. And whether I like it or not, I'm just like him. I always wanted to be growing up before I learned that people are complex and filled with nuances that aren't as pretty as the rose-colored glasses make them out to be. Always following along, placing my steps in the ones he left for me, wondering how I would ever fill them. Now I have; we are two sides of the same coin, whether I like it or not. I filled those footsteps before I could realize I didn't want to.

"What time are we heading to your mom's?"

Checking my phone, Sophia's text indicates they're on the way now. "About thirty?"

He nods, closing his notebooks and unmuting ESPN. The familiar drone of sportscasters takes up the rest of the space in the room not held by my father or myself. I love him, but it can get tiring when often, I have to hold myself up as the person he expects me to be.

"How's everything else going?"

Isaiah is, of course, the first thing that comes to mind. Which is the last thing I'd bring up with my dad. I'm twenty-five with a sister who has two kids, and the idea of talking to my dad about a boy any more than I have to disgusts me. Mainly because his opinion, even though it pisses me off more than not, does mean the world to me. And also, he, unfortunately, was there for the aftermath of Isaiah.

I shrug. "It's alright. I spend more time with you than almost anyone, so there's not much to update you on."

Dad meets my eyes. The downside of spending so much time with him and being almost a mirror image of him is that sometimes, he knows me better than I'd like him to. Even without saying a word. "You sure?"

"Yeah, all good. Sophia came over last weekend; we went to dinner and made Kian bring us breakfast."

Dad huffs lovingly. "Boy's a sucker."

"Always has been."

We share a laugh, happy the tense moment of before has faded into the background. For a dad who taught us boys were stupid and not worth our time (as most do because they think it's the best lesson they can teach their daughters), he took to Kian without hesitation. Without a word, Dad gets up and grabs me water and some pretzels—just the centers where all the salt is because he knows I like it.

"Thank God for you."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

Dad runs a hand over his coarse, short hair. "I love your sister and Kian. But it's nice not having to worry about you." When I furrow my brows, he continues, waving his hand nonchalantly. "About boys and all that shit. You don't let it get to you. Don't let it distract you. Not anymore, at least."

Delaying my answer, I pop a pretzel in my mouth. Dad has no idea how badly I want to hide away with Sophia or rest my head on mom's lap all from just seeing Isaiah. No idea how much I despise how good I've gotten at being alone.

I force a laugh. "Yeah, I guess so. You're welcome for being the easy kid." The joke lands flat.

I want to be able to let down my guard around him—because he's still one of my favorite people—but I can't. He expects better of me.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He snorts, taking a sip of his beer. "You fought with me at every turn."

"Because you taught me to."

As always, the frustration rises whenever we have conversations like this. The things he taught me to be are now other ways to criticize me. Sometimes, I can't help but think that it's because I'm not his son. Are the things he's yelling at me for, criticizing me for, traits he would praise if I was a boy?

Sophia was never going to bend to his every wish—she was softer, she had his love, and didn't need his approval or feel like she needed to earn it. I'm not sure what happened to me, but as a kid, it was like I couldn't do anything without his praise. Mom's praises weren't enough. I needed Dad to be proud of me, to tell me I was doing everything right. I became the kid who did everything by his book, only to have it turned against me when I stopped following the rules. I hate it. That because I'm his daughter, the traits I share with him, the traits he gave me—the traits so often admirable in men—are now a point of contention.

And not to bring it back to Isaiah again, but growing up, even though we were kids, it's like he saw that. He saw how it affected me, and he never made me feel ashamed of the things Dad made me feel ashamed of.

He saw me—always. When my own father couldn't.

He saw me when Sophia was distracted with her own life. When Mom was dealing with her divorce. When I felt ignored by life, I never felt ignored by Isaiah.

He saw me.

Dad's huff of laughter breaks me out of yet another spiral, his eyes on the TV. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Sighing, I lean back. Wanting so badly to scream at him how much it hurts me that he can't see how much I want what Sophia has, how much I don't want this to be my life, how much it hurts that sometimes, he sees me exactly as I am, and other times, he only sees what he wants to.

And how badly I'm still unable to do anything without his approval.

Walking into my mom's house is like sitting on my childhood couch in between waking and sleeping and feeling the warmth of a blanket being placed over top of me.

The loud voices of my nieces welcome us as we enter, along with the smell of my mom and Kian's cooking. We pass through the front room that contains my mom's radio, CDs, and a few chairs, and into the kitchen where Sophia sits at the counter. Mom takes one look at me, and I know the secrets have been spilled, which, as usual, leaves Dad the only one in the dark.

Rightfully so.

Before even my nieces can touch me, Kian bombards me with a hug and an almost painful squeeze. "What in the French toast is this? Get off of me."

Around his shoulder, Sophia shoots me a sheepish look. Whether that's from her oaf of a husband latching onto me like a leech or because she told Mom, I can't decipher. I don't really care. Sometimes it's easier for Sophia to tell my secrets. Because saying things out loud that make me uncomfortable, things that scare me, is not something I'm good at.

Sophia got the ability to be vulnerable. I got her.

Kian places a big kiss on my cheek and lets me go before I can pinch him for it. "Nice to see you too, Aurora."

With a roll of my eyes, I turn away with a smile and head for Zaza. She's standing on a stool in the kitchen next to my mom, dumping flour into a bowl. Some of it has made its way onto her cheeks, leaving white patches on her brown skin.

"Mwah!" I say, placing a quick kiss on her cheek before she can fight me. Zaza smiles as a giggle breaks free. I lean over to do the same to Joey, who's happily seated in Mom's arms.

"Hi, hon." Mom smiles, her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a haphazard bun, tendrils framing her face. Her fair skin is clear and youthful, especially in this room, filled with the people she loves most. Even my dad. They still care about each other, even if it isn't perfect.

"Hi," I say, resting my head on my mom's shoulder. Even though I'm not always good at letting her in, she never turns me away. She has never placed conditions on her love, never made us jump through hoops. She is steady underneath my cheek, and the tension in my shoulders dissipates.

"You ready for your game Saturday?"

"She is," Dad answers for me, kissing Sophia on the cheek.

"Yes, I am. You're coming?"

Mom smiles. "Course. We all will, right, Joey?"

Joey pumps her tiny fist in the air. "Go, Auntie Ro!" Her three-year-old gibberish may be hard to understand at times, but it is goddamn cute. Mom strides around the corner and hands off her granddaughter to Dad. He happily accepts.

"Can you help me with something upstairs?" Mom looks at me, and a glance at Sophia and Kian tells me there is no use in escaping.

I nod, following my mom out of the room. It isn't until I'm seated on her bed with Oscar, the cat, curled on my chest, that I meet her eyes. Her hand lands on my outstretched knee.

"So…" She glances at me, no sympathy in her eyes, just understanding. "Isaiah."

"Yeah." Exhaling, I scratch Oscar between the ears. "I hate that he's here."

"I know you do. And I know that you're wishing it didn't affect you as much as it did. That you could brush it off and move on and act like it never happened. I know how much you hate that you can't. I don't know what Sophia or Kian said, and I love them, but I only care that you know that it is okay. It's okay if you miss him. If you have missed him for all these years. It's okay if you didn't."

She brushes a blond strand out of her eyes. "And none of us would judge you if you hated him, too. We don't know all the details, and we don't need to, but if there's a small part of you that hates him or a small part of you that still loves him…" she hesitates when she says that, scared she might scare me away, but I'm too exhausted to move. Too exhausted to act like I don't want to hear it. "That's alright, too."

My mom, a former professional soccer player, a strong woman—a vulnerable woman—makes it all seem so simple. I admire her for that; I always have. There are many days that I wished I took after her and not Dad.

She brushes a curl away from my forehead before giving me a knowing look. "Dad was never very good at giving you the space to feel your feelings or to let you figure it out on your own. I'm not blaming him, but I see how hard it is for you. And he's never been very good at putting the weight down. Neither are you, sweetie."

There is a wistfully sad look in her eyes. Maybe it's something that comes with age, with the wisdom of loving and losing people over the years, of picking up the weight of life and putting it down. Maybe it's something else. Either way, I'm happy to have that wisdom directed at me and sad that my mom has ever felt even a semblance of this before.

"Remember, that it is okay to put it down. To rest. You don't have to know how you feel; sometimes, it's okay to not know anything. Sure, right now, this is about Isaiah. But it applies to everything. The team, your life. Life is too short for you to be weighed down by it the entire time."

I wish I had something to say, but I don't. But the best part about moms, or at least my mom, is that with a single look, they know exactly what we need. She knows when words are scary, she knows the ins and outs of both her daughters, becoming a chameleon for our needs and never thinking twice about it.

Without a word, she pulls me forward into a hug. Careful not to squeeze too tight, Mom holds me in all the ways that matter.