Disclaimer: I own nothing...but I love them.
When I was born, my dad was just sixteen. But we didn't meet then, we met more than three years later. You see, my mother was seventeen when she had me and she had not bothered to try and tell my dad. I guess I'm messing the story too much, I should start the story earlier, don t I?
My mother met my dad at high school, obviously. Her father was a navy low rank sailor destined in the same town my dad's family lived they still live there, in Maine, my dad got the transfer there when my grandma got sick last year... I'm drifting again. Thing is, my mother was a bit of a wild child, already a year back in school, that's how she hooked up with my dad. I think they dated for a while, I don't know, my dad's never talked much about that. But then my mother's father retired, and they went back to Kentucky. I don't think my mother knew she was pregnant then, she wasn't very focused in anything but having fun. But she had me, left her parents and school to live in a trailer and work as a waitress in a highway dinner. That's were I lose them, my mother's parents, I mean.
Of course I don't remember, I was really little, but somehow along the way my mother got a boyfriend. A bastard alcoholic heroin addict called Doug Wilson that drove a truck till he lost his license to road alcohol controls. He was ugly as a toads ass, or at least that was my impression at two. But I guess that the shots he got for my mother made him attractive enough for her. They didn't beat me frequently, no, it was more the neglecting; most of the time they didn't even notice me, I had to take care of myself, but they certainly beat each other when they were high, which was always. Their fights were legendary; the whole trailer camp shook with their shouts and bumps. But none did anything to help.
As I was saying, it was bearable up until my mother got pregnant again. They were certainly not happy with the news, but once again, they were too high to do anything about it. Anyway, it's still a miracle that my brother managed to be born; to say that our mother did not take care of herself during the pregnancy is hilarious. But regardless of the miracle, Lucas was born with withdrawal symptoms, the heroin, I guess. But I thought he was perfect, so little and beautiful and he sometimes looked at me and smiled. But he cried a lot. Now I know he was in pain, but then I could only cradle him and feed him, and so. How I managed at three to take care of a newborn, I don t know. And I don t know either how no social service, police officer, doctor o whoever prevented them from keeping Lucas and me.
Lucas crying made them even more nervous, which led to more booze and shots and shouts and punches. Usually I managed to snatch Lucas from the firing line, but one day I did not managed to.
Doug spotted us in the backroom of the trailer, he was so high that I couldn't understand a word he said, but he shouted a lot. Lucas got even more terrified and his crying got more hysterical, he was just two months old. Doug, his own father, pulled Lucas off my arms and and and hurled him against the wall.
Lucas stopped crying instantly there was a blood stain in the wall where he had hit it I don't know if he died that instant because Doug tried to hurl me against the wall too right after Lucas. But he failed, and instead of the wall I went through the window and landed a good ten feet from the trailer. Got some nasty cuts and broke several bones in the process and probably passed out, because I don't know how much later, some spark lit the broken gas kitchen and the trailer blew apart with all them inside.
I was left alone.
It was then that all that good and honest Kentucky people finally decided to do something. And I guess they were feeling so guilty for Lucas death that, for once, the system worked. Once my mother's parents were ruled out, I don't know why, someone from the sheriff office followed my mother's steps back to Maine. And when I say followed I mean that someone went there in person to investigate. It took them almost two months to do so, but they found out who was my mother's high school sweetheart at the time I was conceived and, hear this: they talked to my grandparents!
My grandma used to say that the moment they showed her my picture she knew I was theirs. And I must say I believe her, I have my dad s eyes, I do look a lot like my uncle Pete and not so different from my uncle Cole, that's just six years older than me. Anyway, they called my dad; a twenty years old navy lieutenant destined at Pearl, scolded him for being a teenage father and sent him the papers and the picture by urgent mail.
My dad is the best, he really is. He didn't hesitate for a second; he turned his life upside down for me. In a week he managed to get a maternity leave, a pioneer at that, he got the papers shorted, a transfer to an on-land position, a house on base for us, all the officer's wives to help him get that house ready and clothes for me and to drool over such a handsome young daddy and all his buddies all worked up with the news. The officers collected money and got me a navy teddy bear, a toy truck, crayons and several child books. But the petty officers were the best, all of them were just mere boys, nineteen at me most, and they got together and got me a blankie, a navy-blue blankie.
And then, my dad's commander and his wife packed and left with him to Kentucky to get me. They wanted to help him with the paperwork and with me; they thought my dad was too young to take care of a troubled child, so they wanted to help.
I remember the first time I saw my dad as if it was today. The three of them had been traveling for two days, and looked like hell. My dad looked like what he was: a young boy. The sheriff and his wife had been taking care of me once I was out of the hospital, so I was staying with them. They were telling my dad to keep things slow, that I was fragile and jumpy, and that he didn't want to scare me out. I don't think my dad heard a single word. He kept staring at me. The suddenly he kneeled beside me, gathered me in his arms and said: "Hi Tiny Tim, I m your daddy".
And that was it, instinct is a marvelous thing. I have never, ever, from that very first moment, felt anything but loved and sheltered with my dad.
We didn't meet my mum until I was seven, and got transferred out of Pearl to Alameda. That was also love at first sight, at least for me, I've never asked my dad, cause come on, they're my parents, I mean, gross. The thing is, she was the only girlfriend my dad had that I didn't puke on on purpose (that worked every time with the bimbo ones), and when I did puke on her, not on purpose of course, I was with the pox; she passed the test with flying colors. I love her too, the Mother title is not earned by biology.
The rest is history. Everybody knows I have a nice a supportive family. And everybody thinks I'm mama s little boy and papa's little man. They don't know shit. My family is great because we work on making it great.
But I don't know how to explain to Gibbs than I do know what a battle feels like, that he is not the only one that has lost a loved one. To Tony that I know what is like not being wanted by your own parent, and that that does not reflect your real value. To Ziva than she does not need to feel superior to me because she is the one that knows how hard life can be, I do have felt torture in my own flesh too, and at a much earlier age than her. And to Abby that it's her the one that does not have any idea what's like to be the different one, that pity disguised as compassion does not make you the cool one.
But the sad thing is, what would I get if I told them? after Somalia I have not the strength to do so, they still need to feel superior to someone. It will be much slower, but for the time being, I'll have to trust that my actions will make them see the real me and not that punchable probie that I have never been.