My Bedroom or Hers?

My dad met Isabella at some golf event at the club. She was cute, bubbly, manicured and petite- like a doll. More like Chucky in my opinion.

They dated for a few months and then he moved in to her condo.

'Honey, it makes sense, my place is so much nicer than yours and we can move when you earn more.'

She sold him a dream, her dream, and he bought it. She was kind of nice to me. I am not sure if she was horrible because my contact with her was minimal at first and I was young. Then she just seemed to be there all the time. It was a slow drip of control over dad. I know he is supposed to be an adult and be in control of his own actions, but it felt like she did it so subtly that if he ever did wake up and realise he might need to see a therapist that handles people under control of a cult leader.

I am not exggerating. Isabella was charming and magnetising. He must have felt like he had won the lottery. And she knew how to host, how to serve effortlessly and she was immaculate.

She never ever once splashed food on her when cooking. It was weird.

When they finally moved in together there was no obvious space for me other than her spare room which was already her wardrobe. She arranged a small bed and I guess it looked ok, to keep in alignment with her order. But the pillows would fall off and my duvet too. The bed was in the middle of the room. I had to get up and vacate the space for at least an hour every morning so she could dress and after dinner she would need time to work out 'tomorrow's wardrobe'. During the time I was there or not there the cleaner would be in and out moving things around and returning ironed clothing. My space was not my space. I was almost a handbag she wanted to sell on E-Bay but couldn't.

At first dad assured me it wouldn't be for long and we would have a bigger home, with my own room. He smiled about her excessive collections, but admired her beauty and passion. After six months it was obvious he wasn't looking and my mum forced me to stay every other weekend and one night a week. She assured me he was my father and to not let Isabella come between us. Oops, I dropped the ball on that. She taught me not to complain, not give reason for her to find ways to oust me. Reminded me that some kids never had a bedroom and others slept on sofas.

One dinner party I heard Isabella laugh that out loud that at least I wasn't sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, and that I should be honoured to sleep surrounded by the beauty of vintage Chanel and YSL. Dad was out collecting her sister from the station, He never ever, not once, heard any of her little digging bitching comments. And her timing and humour was damn impeccable.

After a year of living like this, mum called and complained. The solution? A bigger bed in the same space, with drawers underneath for my personal items. They explained that the market had moved against them, and could no longer afford a bigger home. Dad had filled the wardrobes in their room and they didn't have much of a choice. For four years I slept amongst her possessions and then one day I stopped turning up.

A group of us were laughing about our dysfunctional homes and comparing horror stories after school. We shared war stories and laughed at how hard it is and what little nasty things are said and done. I jokingly laughed about Isabella wishing I would stop invading her wardrobe. Out loud I wondered if he would miss me if I stopped turning up, and then another friend goaded me and said;

'Try!! See how long it takes to call you when you don't turn up.'

What started as a joke has forced me to face a cruel reality. It's more than a few years. He has missed birthdays, graduation, and a lot of firsts. We joke that maybe he died and Isabella is mourning in her vintage Chanel oversized sunglasses.

'It's not funny.'

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