Changeling
Yiwei Huang, Canada
My mother—the biological mother, the glamorous and manipulative
one—called last night. I had no choice but to answer to her inquiries, and
commiserate with her mundane misfortunes. “He insists on carpet. That’s
fertile breeding grounds for dust mites. He can vacuum it, because I didn’t
want the carpet in the first place. Do you need curtains? Curtains are
expensive here...”
My father—the biological father, the stoic and vengeful one—never calls.
Since his discovery of my scandalous love affair, his displeasure at my
published work, we have not spoken. Our curt emails, once in a blue moon,
are all business. We talk RESPs, we talk money. He doesn’t want me back, and
I’m good with that.
The first time I left him, I was five. He had divorced his wife, the biological
mother, and was living with the new wife, the surrogate mother. A
five-year-old is taxing. I guzzled energy like air conditioning. Perhaps I was
too much for them.
The discussion was brief, and very lacklustre, not the least dramatic. “Go to
your mother’s apartment,” he said. I said nothing. He opened the door. I
stepped out. He locked the door.
It was dark. The apartment corridor had no functioning light. Underneath
my father’s door was a bright white line. I stared at it. Then I put my hands in
my pockets and ran down the stairs.