Ash Champlain 

Dylan Haughton

English 160 

September 22 2022 

Richard Edward Champlain, my father, has always been the bad guy. He would shower my sister and  me with gifts, candies, trips to the diner, and endless amounts of tickets at the arcade. He was the supposed ‘fun parent.’ He made things fun because we got away with everything. This might sound amazing and fun, especially for a kid, but I can’t remember when he would say he loved me, or when he ever gave me a hug.  

Around the age of eleven or twelve, I would come home after school and see him on the dark, mustard yellow, old-looking recliner chair that looked to be from the 80’s that he would usually sit on, probably reading the Funnies in the newspaper from the day before. He’d not move a muscle after the door had shut to ask, “Did you guys do your homework?” Only to get a lying response of, “Yeah, we did it on the bus.” Then my sister and I would dash upstairs, throw our bags down, and get comfortable into bed. 

But no, obviously we didn’t do our online math homework on the half an hour bus ride home.  

Whenever my dad was home, I wouldn’t do anything school related, especially since my father wouldn’t check in on me. I got away with almost anything if it was him and I under the roof. I could eat whatever junk food my little-kid-self desired, watch whatever I wanted to watch for however long my eyes could watch the bright TV screen before melting out of their sockets, I didn’t have to do my homework, and I also could ask my dad to drive me anywhere I needed or wanted to be.  

Until it was time to pick up my mother from the train station, I would watch YouTube or play Minecraft. The three of us- me, my father, and my sister- would then drive to the train station, wait for my mom to walk down the steps, and then we would all go home and have dinner together. It was a pretty basic schedule if you ask me; wake up, go to school, come home, not do my homework, snack, pick up mom, eat dinner, not do more homework until I pass out, then repeat everything the next day. 

I never spoke to my mom much; I’d always want to talk or hang out with my friends. But she would always make sure my sister and I did our homework, and make sure we didn’t spend more than an hour on our screens. She was a good mother, still is, but to my young eyes she was the bad guy out of both my parents because of all the rules she set for me. Or, maybe because she actually loved, cared for, and protected me the way a mother should.  

Looking back now, I realize she was not the best parent though. She was mean, would yell at my sister and I whenever we were fighting, even if we weren’t fighting, and wouldn’t let us get things we wanted unless it was our birthday or Christmas. My mother taught me that money was always tight, that we didn’t have a lot of it, and asking for ‘unnecessary things’ was wrong. So now I have money guilt, amongst other things caused by her ‘lessons’ and ‘lectures’.  

On the other hand, before things got bad with my father, he was always the nice guy. He would do anything I asked when I was young. Mom said I couldn’t go on the dragon ride at Funland? Dad took me just by himself one night and let me go on it. I couldn’t have two milkshakes from the diner? One day when I was sick, my father picked me up mid-day from school and took me to the diner. I had one milkshake with my pancakes and a small shake for the road. My dad really was a fun parent. He treated me like I was his favorite thing and would do anything for me.  Yet, despite all the overly nice things my dad did for me, I didn’t get to do a bunch of father-son things with him as he was quite lazy. He had diabetes as well, which made simple things such as being outside for more than literally ten minutes ‘too much’ for him. He never exercised, didn’t eat right for his health, and always complained about the simplest things. 

Later on, he became worse. I could see it, the way he changed so quickly. It was only about nine months before his passing when he would treat me with such vicious acts of violence, and I was only a confused twelve year old when he started. I remember the first time he ever hit me, I don’t think my mind will ever forget; I came home from school a little later than usual, due to the bus arriving late to pick up all the students, and I swiftly walked past the kitchen to head to my room like I normally do. Before I could put my foot on the first step, I heard heavy breathing coming from the kitchen, and stopped myself to backtrack and see who it was. The heavy breathing came from my father, who appeared to be all sweaty, tired looking, and slurring words when he tried to greet me. I didn’t understand what was happening so I did the human decent thing to do and asked if he was okay. He slowly slugged out of the straw-weaved chair he was sitting in to get closer to me, then replied with a lousy smack across the face, and a loud booming voice telling me to get out of the house. I was so taken aback that my body was glued to the floor for a few seconds. I couldn’t feel my hands, they tingled along with the stinging pain on my face. My surroundings of the dull yellow kitchen walls started to clear up as I turned and ran away from whoever just hit me. 

I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed my mother in a panic not knowing what to do. I hadn’t told her he hit me, but explained how he was zombie-like; not really in his own head, someone I didn’t recognize like he was a different person. 

At that exact moment, I was frightened

I had never seen my father like this before and I didn’t understand why or know what to do. She explained to me he needed sugar, his blood pressure was too low, and I needed to give him orange juice as soon as possible. So, doing what my mother said, I practically begged my father to drink the orange juice I had poured him seconds ago. He kept denying the cup every time I would inch it towards him across the cool, marble countertop. I nudged the cup until it was right in front of him. He took a few solid sized sips, then slammed the cup down on the table, making my heart drop from the abrupt loud noise, refusing to drink it again.

I pushed the cup of non-pulp orange juice back towards him and he finally took it. But, instead of drinking it, my father threw it at me in a fit of unbeknownst rage. At this point, I just gave up on trying to help him and rushed up to my room slamming the door, shouting at him and his actions as angry, warm tears raced each other down my face.

I never saw that my father was the villain until I got older, until I had the physical proof. But, then again he always was; I was just too young to grasp the fact that he started being rude to me and would increasingly get more and more aggressive and physical over time to the point where it was almost an everyday occurrence. My mother, on the other hand, has always wanted to protect and care for me, while my father just did his best to bribe me for my love. 

His bribes worked. 

From being a little kid and getting small gifts, or whatever it was my mom wouldn’t let me do, to being a teen and getting gifts in the act of physical violence or whatever my mom didn’t know about. I thought it was all love, I thought and believed for too long. Back then I never understood why he would yell and shout at me or hit me, but here I am now afraid of becoming what he was; I’m scared I’ll get physical with the ones I love, unable to control my aggression when needed, that my voice will be just a few octaves higher than I indented, that the way I love people will be portrayed as anger towards others as that’s how I was taught love to be.

Once he was starting to go in and out of hospitals due to his poor health, life seemed a little more peaceful in the household. I’m aware that sounds terrible, but it’s true. A part of me believes I helped manifest my father’s death. A week before he was first admitted to the hospital, we got into a heated argument and I wished he were dead. Who wishes for their own parents’ death? I guess I do. After the countless trips and him practically being on his deathbed, I was asked to say goodbye to him. 

I said no. 

As much as I despised my last moments with my father, I did not want to see him in such poor conditions: the tubes, pale skin, can’t really talk, and so on. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even though he was the person he was, I regret not saying goodbye. Why do I regret such a decision over someone I’m still unsure of? What kind of guy am I to make that decision?

A little over five years ago, to this day, I still don’t know if not saying goodbye to my father was the correct choice. I could have possibly been at peace with him, forgave him for how he’s treated me, talked with him alone and told him things I’ve wanted to say to him. I could have wished Richard and our connection godspeed, maybe then would my regret or even possible guilt could deplete from my mind today. Only today do I fully understand that Richard has always, always been the antagonist in my life, while my mother has always been the exceptional parent.