August 4, 1968
by Amy
I hate being summoned by my Father. It makes me feel like a child again, like the time he caught me stuffing apples down my pants and inviting the neighborhood boys to eat them. Or the time I got caught painting a bathroom stall with red nail polish at school. Each time, I was summoned to stand before my Father. He told me he was disappointed in my unlady-like behavior and that he expected more from me.
It wouldn't bother me if my Mother said that. For the record, Mother is perpetually disappointed in my unlady-like behavior, which is good. I would expect nothing less.
But when my Father tells me how disappointed he is, then my stomach drops. It makes me want to throw up. I would rather not admit that it has any effect. Someday, I'd love to piss him off and then stand defiantly against whatever bitter judgment he has formulated. Maybe I'll be able to do it. But not now.
My meeting with him is tonight. I wish I didn't have to go.
