The Secret to Success

As I approached the hallway leading into my parent’s room, I heard my conscious say, “Eric, don’t do it, you know you shouldn’t go into your parent’s room looking through their personal belongings. If you really want to know, just call your mom and ask.” I stopped for a quick second to acknowledge the voice, but like so many other times before, I ignored it. I walked out of the hallway and slowly into their room passed the bed and toward their dresser. I couldn’t decide if what I was looking for was in their armoire or the dresser and didn’t have all day to decide. My father was a supervisor at GM; which meant he could pop in at any moment. I stood there for about 30 seconds when suddenly, a light came on, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” My index finger was pointing at the honey pine finished dresser when I got to the last moe. I walked toward the dresser and cautiously opened the top left drawer. I wanted to make sure no one else knew I had been in the drawer, so I memorized sure where everything was so I could put things back exactly how I found them. When I opened the drawer, I also noticed a sliver box with a lock. It looked like something my parents would keep important papers in, but I didn’t know how much time I had, so I moved it to the side and began looking through the papers in the top drawer. I grabbed the first set of papers and my hands began shaking. As I looked through them, I didn’t see anything, so I began putting them on the top of the dresser sequentially so I would not forget what order they were in. After a few minutes of looking and finding nothing relevant, I began feeling bad for going through their things. All I saw was a bunch of junk mail and old receipts. Just as I was about to close the drawer and get out of Dodge, I noticed a piece of paper that looked like a birth certificate. I stared at it for a minute, debating if I really wanted to look at it. As I grabbed it with my right hand, my heart sank in my chest. I pulled it close to my face and studied it like an exam. The first thing I noticed was the city in which I was born. That section had Chicago, my mother’s maiden name, and my father’s name. The birth certificate seemed legit. It had the official State of Illinois insignia and the words, Certificate of Live Birth, in bold letters. The first section had my name, Eric Douglas Thomas, my birth date and the hour I was born. The second section showed my sex, and the county I was born in. The third line seemed legit as well. It indicated that I was born in Chicago, within city limits. Everything seemed cool until I got to the parent section. First, it listed my mom’s name, her age at the time of my birth, and the city she resided in. From the look of it, my father’s information was correct as well, but something seemed a little strange. My father’s section didn’t even contain the relation to child question. He just signed his name under father’s name. My mom’s section had the question clearly spelled out—relation to the child, mother. The other red flag was the section that asked for their ages. I knew for certain that there was a four-year age difference between my parents. So I did the math, at 18 my mom was living in Chicago finishing school at Dunbar High and my father was in college at Texas Southern playing basketball. Come to think of it, my father was from Detroit, he never even lived in Chicago. So if he lived in Detroit, and my mom lived in Chicago, if she was in high school, and he was in college, they couldn’t have possibly known each other. To make it worse, I already knew they weren’t married at the time I was born. I started to feel light headed and my heart started racing faster and faster and I started sweating. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I started telling myself, “Maybe they were shocked when they found out my mom was pregnant and didn’t know what to do. Or maybe they were too young to get married and needed more time to figure out what they wanted to do.” I tried to come up with every reason I could to justify what was happening. The only thing left for me to do was to call my mom. “Yeah, I’ll call my mom and she’ll straighten all this out.” I picked up the phone and quickly dialed her work number. “Microfilm,” she said in her professional voice. “Mom, I need to ask you a question!” She could tell something was wrong in my voice. “What is it son?” “If I ask you will you promise to tell me the truth?” I said in a real nervous tone. “I promise, now what is it?” she asked. “Is daddy my real father?” The silence penetrated my soul. It might have only lasted for a few seconds, but it felt like minutes. Finally she said, “No son, he isn’t your real father.”

CHAPTER

3

I’m a Survivor