  My father just called me. He asked if I wanted to have dinner at his house of Friday. It's a birthday dinner, he says. Right. Sure it is. It's more like an after thought. This dinner, in all actuality, is focused primarily around my brother's engagement.
Which is fine. But don't tell me a lie. My father, and I, have many issue. The way I dress. The color of my hair. Tattoos. "That funny thing in your lip. Why do you make yourself look ugly? Don't you care what other people think of you? " Actually, dad. No. I don't. You should. I don't. After hours of this relentless criticizing, and a tension beyond explanation, I'll come up with some pathetic excuse to take my leave early.
But not before the look on my sister's face causes me so much guilt and grief, that I end up staying an additional few hours. I'll yearn for alcohol. But I won't have any. I'll crave for just one itty bitty puff of a cigarette. But I won't dare take one. This is my family. A father who calls and invites me over to his house once every 6 months. A stepmother who hates me. Yes, hates me. How do I know this? She told me. She doesn't hate me for the person I am.
Oh no. She hates me because I'm my father's child. I'm guessing, nobody taught her how to share as a child. Hmm? It's a good thing I have enough sense to hate her back. Unfortunately, however, in the middle of all this, is my eight year old sister, who I love more then my life itself. So, I'll go. And this will be my birthday dinner. I won't complain, at least not much. I suppose a dysfunctional family is better then no family at all.
And, I have to admit, there is a part of me that is thrilled he called. It's amazing, that an almost twenty-six year old, can still feel sixteen around her father. Desperately seeking his approval, and still coming in a disappointing second. 
