Dinner on Main Street

The streetlamps spread a dim light on the wide avenue, raindrops flowing down on the large metropolis. As I arrived at my parents house on this dark night, the familiar house was lost in a thick shower of rainwater. The storm descended down before my eyes, blinding myself from the usually amicable street. I finally arrived at my parents house, drenched in rain yet covered by my dark grey trench coat. The entryway was as inviting as ever, the dark oak door garnished with gold. A small glass window secured by iron bars rests near the top of the door, inviting yet seclusive.  
 
My father greeted me at the door with open arms. I haven’t seen him since I left for Chicago 13 years ago. My father was a loving man with a stern face, faithful to God and Jesus yet controlled by alcohol. Though he said that he was working to fix this problem, the stench of his breath and shaky stance showed otherwise. I was nervous at first, memories of my childhood resurfacing from the stench of beer and the sight of empty bottles, yet he seemed to be controlling his fury. Though he looked like a new man, his habits did not change. My mother sat on a chair knitting, attempting to appease my father and control his anger. She had a kind, calm face and immediately stood up to greet me as I walked in. After a long day of travelling I was hungry and tired, so we all sat down to eat.
 
My mother had prepared a lemon chicken with asparagus and a tomato salad, my favorite. Dinner was going wonderfully, yet nobody was talking. I had expected after 13 years that we would catch up like normal, yet it seemed as if the gloomy air and pouring rained set a pessimistic tone for the evening. I decided to start a conversation with my parents, and most things in our relationship returned to normal. I asked about their lives, the city, previous friends, my siblings, and finally our dog.  
 
My dad, normally a firm and tough man, began to tear up. Our dog, Oscar, was my dad’s calming mechanism. A golden retriever struck by age, Oscar’s days were limited the day I had left for the Windy City. Oscar lasted a long time, and died to old age 9 months before my arrival. My dad’s rock, destroyed by the passage of time, returned my dad to his old habits. Though my mother had tried to prevent this from happening, it was too late. The passing of Oscar bringing my dad back in time, a time where fear grasped the family and alcoholism destroyed our bonds.  
 
Rain pattered on the rooftop as my father finished his tale. I could tell he was trying to hold in his emotions in front of the family, but the liquor brought out a side I had never seen in him. A caring one. A loving one. A fatherly one. However, this moment of familial love was short-lived. My father, refusing to appear weak in front of the family, began to release years of built up anger. Memories of my troubled childhood began to resurface again, memories of hiding in the closet while my father berated my mother. Memories of my father yelling at my siblings and I for being disappointments. Memories of physical altercations between my father and my mother, Mom repeatedly taking the blows for her children. All of these memories appeared before my eyes, remembering the childhood I had instead of the one I wanted to remember.  
 
My father began to yell at my mother for a plethora of things. How she didn’t raise her children properly, how the dinner she had prepared was appalling, how she had failed as a mother and as a wife. My mother, caring yet strong, blocked me from my father’s uncontrollable fury and anger. My mother, a saint amongst sinners, refused to let me be affected by the death of a dog. As I returned upstairs to my quiet room to hide from my father, I realized something in my mother I had never seen before. Courage. Strength. Love. She had been there for me in my past, and now my present. The memories of my mother had been concealed by my memories of my father. Her love masked by his hate. Her strength invisible, his fury prevailing. Tired by these thoughts, I went to bed.
 
As I woke up the next morning, I saw my parents in the kitchen. I immediately went and gave my mother a hug. A hug stronger than any other hug before. A hug that conveyed more than love, but thankfulness, regret, and empathy. As I left the house on Main Street, with the small window, dark-oak door, and gold plating, I left with more than just time spent with my parents. I left with a realization. A realization of the inner-beauty of my mother. The type of beauty that would take a beating for their kids. A type of beauty that would stand up for their loved ones. A type of beauty who would see the good in their husband over the bad. As I entered the cab on the wide street, the view of my old house became smaller and smaller. What seemed a distant memory was now revitalized with hope, as I’m driving away from the past, and my future reflected on the back window.