Come to Light
by Marina Zarate
The house was quiet. I could hear the crickets chirping outside. The moon shone through the horizontal blinds behind the black, cluttered entertainment center. Our family portrait – my mom, dad, sister and I – was illuminated in the dark on the opposite wall. There was a creak as my foot came down on the living room carpet.
“Shhhh!” my sister whispered, a blue flashlight in her hand.
I felt my stomach turn. Chills overcame me on the warm August night. I followed her steps through the living room and kitchen.
We came to my parents’ bedroom; the door was closed. I saw my sister tense up in front of me as she turned on the flashlight. She gave me a quick glance over her left shoulder. I saw fear in her eyes.
I braced myself.
My sister shoved the door open. She flashed the light into the dark room.
My father sprang up in bed, surprised and half asleep. He muttered something in Spanish.
A woman with dark, black hair and a chubby face sat up in bed.
I gasped and stepped back as a feeling of horror overcame me. I couldn’t breathe.
My father yelled at my sister to turn off the light and get out.
She backed away slowly and turned to look at me.
That woman was not our mother.
My father was always the rule-maker. He was our disciplinarian, the stereotypical macho, Mexican male. My mother constantly submitted to his will and, as children, we were taught to address him with the utmost respect.
He espoused ideals that, as American teenagers, my sister and I didn’t understand. Rule No. 1: no boys. As young girls we had to ask my father’s permission to do everything, including going to the mall. Most of the time, the answer was
If we had friends, my father had to interview them. If they had boyfriends, they were out of the question.
He lectured us on the responsibilities of being respectable young women. This meant that if we were ever “deflowered” we no longer had any value. Only “decent” women who waited until marriage to have sex enjoyed a fruitful life.
My sister and I disagreed with my father in private; we sat in our room, conferring about the antiquity my father represented. But, as “good girls” who were taught to sit and listen, we never dared speak back and explain to my father that he no longer lived in Mexico. The rules in America were different, and women had rights.
My mother, on the other hand, was the opposite of my father. She grew up with American ideals. She understood our point of view, but didn’t want to undermine our father. She defended us in private. She was our backbone. She let us get away with certain things, like going to the mall without my father’s permission. She believed that my father had our best interests at heart.
It was the summer of 2001, and my sister was about to head off to the University of California, Riverside. She was going to be able to enjoy her life and act as she pleased.
My mother had gone back to work for the first time in three years, working the night shift as a busser at the local casino.
I dreaded the day when my sister was gone and my mother had to work because it would mean constant time with my father. I wouldn’t be able to talk on the phone or watch the TV programs I liked; he would take over my life.
My father had begun to act suspiciously. He began going out more frequently at night and using his cell phone more than usual. I thought nothing of it until the night I overheard a strange conversation.
My mother was getting ready to head off to work, and my sister was watching TV. I was putting laundry away when I heard my father whispering outside my bedroom window.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said in Spanish. “Don’t worry, she’ll be at work and the girls will be asleep.”
I told my sister. We decided not to alarm my mom until we could figure out what was going on.
That night, we snuck out of our room as quietly as possible and decided to check my parents’ room. We didn’t intend to find out something as earth shattering as my father having an affair, but that’s exactly what we found.
Those first few minutes after we discovered him were a blur. My sister ran through the house turning on every light in an attempt to expose my father’s secret.
I sat on the couch, numb. I was only 16 years old and, in those few seconds, my life had fallen apart. My father was a hypocrite.
He emerged from the bedroom in his bathrobe. He stared at me and then my sister, I could almost see the fumes flaring from her nostrils. My sister had admired my father.
The round lady in the gray shorts stood behind him. I couldn’t believe she had the audacity to show her face. Maybe it was adrenaline or anger, but, for the first time, I stood up for myself.
I shouted, “Get out of my house!”
The woman looked to my father and, as if asking his permission, turned around and walked out the door.
My sister and I confronted my father. He defended himself. He attempted to convince us that telling my mother would only cause her pain.
“I’m only thinking about her interests,” he said.
My sister and I scoffed.
He said my mother wouldn’t leave him even if she knew the truth.
“In case you didn’t know,” he said. “Your mother loves me more than she loves you.”
I will never forget how those words sounded leaving my father’s mouth. Tears began to streak my face. As I put my head down to sob, my father stood up and went to bed.
My sister and I decided that we would no longer live in fear of my father. He couldn’t bully us into keeping quiet.
So we told our mother. She remained calm and composed as we related to her what had transpired.
My father came in just then and his face dropped. He knew. Without speaking a word to one another, they walked outside and shut the door behind them.
I’m not sure what happened in that conversation, but my mother didn’t leave my father. They’re together to this day.
I realized later that my mother stayed, not because she loved my father more, but because she made a commitment to him. And in the end, it was my father who needed our approval more than we needed his.
My sister and I were angry, but we moved forward.
The last two years of high school, I joined clubs and became more involved in outgoing activities. I began to spend time with my friends and I no longer asked my father for permission.
Neither my sister nor I ran away. We didn’t get knocked up and we still talk to our father. We still listen to our father. And for the most part, we’ve forgiven him.