It was a bright green and gold couch; the type of ugly that only the 1970s could come up with. I can still remember the exact frightening pattern to the fabric, and the dark stain of the wood.

My brother and I both sat on it, as our parents explained that they were getting divorced and that my father was moving out.

It shouldn't have been a suprise. After all, we saw all the fights, visited him at the alcohol rehab center, went with mom when we had to get him out of the drunk tank after crashing the truck into a building. But there was still the shock and confusion, which still didn't amount to anything compared to the way our lives would change. We had no idea.

My father's partners ruined the family business, so his bankruptcy tainted our credit for 15 years. We lost the house we were living in and proceeded to move from relative's place to relative's place by the mercy of charity.

He used to call, drunk, asking when we would come back and see him, and if we wanted to live with him. Meanwhile, he didn't pay child support.

And the years that have passed have never mattered. Answering the phone, not talking to him for 10 years, and resuming an infrequent contact after that.

All it takes is the sound of his voice or the reminder of a picture. And I'm that 4th grader on that ugly fucking couch again, trying to make sense of my life.

I forgave him and still love him, even though he's got a new family and another son. But it's not enough. It doesn't make anything better.