[ WP ] Your mother never talks about your absent father . Then , you discover that is because you are the product of rape . You do some digging and find a picture of your notorious father in an old newspaper.One day you see your father , the man who raped your mother , and approach him .

The bar is dark and nearly empty on this Monday afternoon. I order another scotch and slouch down further, resting my elbows on the hard surface of the bar. A fly buzzes lazily around my head. There ’ s a ceiling fan working overtime, but the bar is hot. My glass is thick with condensation and the bar top is wet. I feel like there should be someone playing slow, soulful blues, but the only sounds come from the fly and the fan. I absent mindedly run my hands up and down the sides of my glass, wetting them. I stare at the bottles behind the bar. I try not to think about anything I don ’ t want to think about. 
 
 
 The door opens. I instinctively look up, immediately regretting the decision. It ’ s the middle of the day. It ’ s still light out, and I ’ m blinded by the sunlight pouring in. The door swings shut, and as I recover my vision, the visitor walks across the bar. He takes a seat near me and orders a whiskey, neat. 
 
 
 My vision recovered, I surreptitiously glance at the newcomer. Who spends time at bars on Monday afternoons? What kind of men are we? 
 
 
 When I see him, my stomach lurches. It ’ s not him, I think. It can ’ t be. But the more I stare ( and I am staring now ), the more I ’ m sure. The blue-black hair is graying at the temples, and there are more wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. But those eyes, those piercing, cold, ice-blue eyes. I ’ d know them anywhere. They ’ d haunted me for the last five years, from the first time I ’ d seen my father ’ s picture in an old newspaper. The first time my mother had told me the truth about my conception. I know who this man is. The man sitting next to me at the bar on a Monday afternoon is the man from the photograph: my mother ’ s rapist. My father. 
 
 
 I gulp down the rest of my scotch. “ I ’ ll take another, ” I tell the bartender. And then I sit, and I sweat, and I try to decide what to do. I ’ m angry. I ’ m curious. I ’ m scared. I don ’ t know what to feel or what to think or what to say. But I have to say something, don ’ t I? So far, the man whom I ’ ve only seen in a newspaper photograph, the man who violated my mother and gave me life, this man hasn ’ t seemed to notice me. He stares down at his glass vacantly. 
 
 
 I ’ m shaking as I turn toward him. “ Hot day, isn ’ t it? ” I say. He doesn ’ t look up, doesn ’ t respond. He grunts, and then nods at the bartender, who pours him another drink. “ You from around here? ” I try again. 
 
 
 This time, he turns to look at me. He stares at me for a few seconds—though it seems like an eternity. This is my father. This is the man to whom I owe my very existence. And he ’ s also the man who hurt my mother and ruined my childhood. The man who caused my mother to resent me. To alternate between ignoring me and tormenting me. To call me a monster, a mistake—to say that I should have been aborted. Does this man realize what he did, not just to her, but to ME? 
 
 
 He shakes his head. Clearly uninterested in conversation, he turns away from me and pointedly asks the bartender to turn on the baseball game. I can ’ t let it end like this. I will talk to him. This is important. This is my life. Maybe if I tell him how I feel, I can get out of this funk. Maybe I ’ ll find myself. That ’ s it! I ’ ll confront my father to find myself. 
 
 
 I won ’ t let him shoot me down this time. I won ’ t take no for an answer. I ’ m going to tell him exactly who I am and exactly what he ’ s done. I ’ ll demand an explanation. Maybe I ’ ll even punch him in the stomach! I ’ m amped up, shaky, and my palms are sweaty. I down my drink quickly, and get up to use the bathroom. I can ’ t have any distractions. 
 
 
 I stand in the bathroom psyching myself up. Finally, closure. Finally, answers. I ’ ll make him feel bad. He ’ ll cry, apologize. He ’ ll tell me how much he regrets missing out on my childhood. I ’ ll punch him right in the stomach and he won ’ t even be mad. He ’ ll tell me that he deserved it. And then we ’ ll hug it out, and maybe I ’ ll still be a little bit mad, but he ’ ll tell me how sorry he is, how awful he feels. I ’ ll be able to move forward again. 
 
 
 With renewed energy and confidence, I leave the restroom. I have my approach all planned out. I know what I ’ ll say, and I know how he ’ ll respond. For the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful. 
 
 
 When I round the corner and approach the bar, my heart sinks into my stomach. He ’ s gone. All that ’ s left is a five dollar bill on the bartop and a whiskey tumbler. Sick to my stomach, I rush to the front door and thrust it open. 
 
 
 It ’ s so bright out. I can ’ t see a thing. By the time my eyes adjust, he ’ s gone. If he was ever really there in the first place. 
 
 
 I walk back into the bar. As soon as I can see again, I turn to the bartender. “ Another scotch, ” I say. He pours me the drink. I absent mindedly run my hands up and down the sides of my glass, wetting them. I stare at the bottles behind the bar. I try not to think about anything I don ’ t want to think about. 

