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My world imploded on my 14th birthday. The upheaval had nothing to do with raging hormones and everything to do with betrayal.

We celebrated my birth on the weekend, but I decided I deserved an afternoon to celebrate on my own. What Mom didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and I was one of the few who hadn't ditched on occasion. I stayed in school long enough to pass my math test and then bounced at lunch. Mom would be at work until 11, late enough for me to erase the message from the school asking if she knew I wasn't there.

I was given a key to the house at age 8 and pretty much fended for myself while Mom was at work. Today I was going to sprawl out and game on my PlayStation. I wasn't a full-fledged rebel yet and hadn't started inviting friends to hang out when Mom wasn't there.

The letter lying below the mail drop changed everything. I reached down to pick it up and put it on the table in the foyer, but my name in bold black letters was printed on the front: Chauncy Wayne Baisford Jr. No name was written in the upper corner where the return address went. Instead it read: Ditto Sr., 59237 Placerville Rd., Dry Prong, LA.

Weird. I turned the envelope over. On the back stamped in red were the words, "Not censored. Grant Parish Correctional Center."

My heart began to race. My hands shook and my palms were clammy. Could it possibly be a letter from Dad? I shook my head in denial. Don't go getting all emotional over a stupid letter. He left. Let him stay gone. I didn't need him then, and I don't need him now.

I was often home alone because Dad traded home for prison. He basically abandoned me years before the cops caught him dealing. He wasn't in the now, spending all his time looking for a new high and a way to get it. Some Dad he was, a junkie who put his next fix before his son. Good riddance. I was better off without him. Screw the good memories. They dated from my preschool years, before the accident and the prescriptions for back pain and his steady decline.

My Mom, a nurse, said he had an addictive personality even before he took Oxy. She refused to bash him, simply saying we were better off without him in our lives.

I sat down on the bottom step and wiped my hands on my jeans. Turning the envelope over and over in my hands, I tried to hold onto my anger but curiosity won. I examined the writing to see if it looked anything like mine. I sniffed it to see if it had any particular smell. It didn't. I slid my finger under the flap and then pulled it back out, not certain I was ready to find out what was inside. I stuffed the letter in my pocket, raced up the stairs, climbed out my bedroom window and swung onto the platform of the tree house Dad and Uncle Clarence had built for my fifth birthday.

As I stood there, I was five again. Dad was drinking beer and joking with Uncle Clarence, making one of his corny jokes. "What did the flying squirrel say after someone spilled beer in his water? Spray some of that foamy stuff, I'm coming in for a landing." I saw him standing on the platform, head thrown back in laughter, with a bottle of Chafunkta beer in his hand. He was about to bash it on the side of the tree house and christen it Chauncy's Funkie Hideaway, as it was declared on a wood-burned sign hanging below the platform. A squirrel decided to join the party, dashing down a limb just as Dad took a swing. I heard Mom scream as the squirrel dashed between Dad's feet.

I shook my head to clear the memory. I didn't want to see him there, the laughter gone, broken and in pain. As though in mockery, I heard an ambulance siren on the street as I forced myself into the present. But I knew what I refused to remember. He had been on the ground, unable to move when the EMTs came. He was taken to the hospital and eventually prescribed Oxy...

Mom wanted to destroy the tree house, but Dad convinced her his fall had not jinxed it. Uncle Clarence added some railings to satisfy her. It had two columns, and a back wall held up a sloped roof, which allowed for rain runoff. Roll down canvases on the sides gave additional privacy. The front, facing my bedroom window, was left open. I called it the Funk. I went there to read or hide or when I wanted to feel close to my absent Dad.

I flopped down on the beanbag and slowly opened the envelope. Inside was a birthday card. It read: "Wish I could celebrate with you, son."

A tear rolled down my cheek. I swiped at it with my hand. "Man up," I told myself. "It's just a stupid birthday card."

When I opened the card, in front of me were the words, "Since I can't, you'll be in my thoughts all day, Dad."

My eyes were drawn to the blank side of the card. Taped to the inside was a picture of a man standing beside a block wall. He wore a light blue shirt and a pair of blue jeans. On the jeans inmate was stenciled in orange. Piercing blue eyes stared out of a tanned face. His chin was chiseled, like a Mt. Rushmore statue. High cheekbones bracketed a straight, narrow nose topped by dishwater blond hair in a buzz cut. He looked fit, like he had been to the gym. His smile was lopsided, with the left higher than the right, and there was one dimple on the right, as though to make up for the fact that his mouth seemed to favor the left side of his face.

I knew that smile. It stared back at me from all of my school pictures. Until that moment I hated that skewed smile. On him, though, it sort of looked cool. I might not have inherited his dagger blue eyes, but he had definitely stamped me with the smile. My brown eyes were not as dashing and my hair was darker, but I was definitely related to this man. I had his cheekbones and nose, as well as his smile. I wondered uneasily if Mom was right about addictive behavior being hereditary. Shrugging off the feeling, I ran my fingers over the picture.

That was when I noticed it felt padded. Behind the picture was a folded piece of paper covered with tiny printed words. I wondered if he was short on paper and so had to cram as many words as possible into the available space or if he just preferred to write small. I unfolded the paper and began to read.

"Dear CW:"

Dad had always called me CW. Mom preferred Wayne. Nobody called me Chauncy. When I asked why I had the name, since nobody liked it, Mom always shrugged and said with a sigh, "Your Dad wanted a Junior. He filled out the birth certificated while I was still groggy. And so Chauncy you are."

Returning to the letter, I read on. "I imagine this will simply be returned to me unopened like every other letter I have sent you over the last six years, but just in case your Mom has a change of heart now that you're an adolescent, I'm writing this letter to you anyway."

When I read those words, my hands convulsed into a fist as my heart pounded in disbelief. I jerked so hard on the paper that it tore. Seeing red, I tried to calm down by smoothing the paper and piecing it back together, but his words were hopelessly torn. I climbed into the house in search of tape to repair the damage. As I carefully fastened the letter back together, I sank down in front of the desk in the corner of our den.

"I know that I have done some dumb things, and I don't deserve to have you in my life. I can accept that your Mom has moved on, but I have never been able to believe that you hate me and don't want me in your life."

I felt my teeth grind together as I digested those words. Mom let him think that I hate him?!

" I love you son. You are the one good thing I have done. I beg for your forgiveness."

Done. It's done! 

I wanted to shout my response, but all I had was a letter.

I love you too. And if prison got you clean...

 But I couldn't tell him. I'd have to write and wait for days while snailmail made it's way across the state. Frustrated, I looked back down.

"I know it's a long way from where you live in Jefferson Parish to where I'm imprisoned, so I don't expect you to visit. I put your name on my visiting list, along with your mother's and Uncle Clarence's, just in case. Uncle Clarence is the only one who has ever come to see me. I hope that you will want to write to me and get to know me that way. Maybe one day I'll be at a prison closer to home and then you can come to see me. If you do, I'll give you the six years of letters and cards stamped, Return to Sender. I keep them in my locker."

He still has six years of letters? Aren't prison lockers kind of small? He must love me a lot to keep them.

"I have been working out here, and my back is getting stronger. They wouldn't let me be on the boxing team because of my injury, but I have a job in the gym. I take care of the boxing equipment and such, so I get to hang out with the boxers.

Uncle Clarence said that you're good in school. I'm glad. You get that from your Mom. She was always the smart one. I wasn't stupid. I just got distracted easy. I would rather be outside doing things than holed up with a book. Since I've been here, though, I've learned that books can take you places you can't go physically. I've been all over the world and to alien planets and strange fantasy worlds, all while behind the chainlink fence.

If you get this, write me back. You have to include my number, 174734. To the state of Louisiana I'm not a name, just a number. Without the number, the letter won't make it to me.

Love, Dad."

By the time I finished reading, my hands were shaking. My ears were burning, and I was tapping my foot as though a pounding bass was pulsing through my body. A picture of my Mom and me sat on the desk. Grabbing it, I screamed, "How could you! How could you?"

I smashed the picture on the corner of the desk, breaking the glass. I pulled out the picture, not even noticing that I cut my hand in the process. Tearing the picture in half, I separated my mother and me.

Laying my picture on the desk, I tore hers into tiny pieces and piled them in a small decorative dish. As I stood glaring at the offending pieces, I noticed a book of matches on the desk. My anger ignited my inner pyro. I struck a match and lit the pile. As tears ran unheeded down my face, I watched it burn with an intensity that matched the flames.

My rage was somewhat lessened after I lashed out, but my sense of betrayal was only fueled. I looked around the room for some other way to make certain Mom understood that she screwed me over in a major way. I didn't want to just let her know I was mad; I wanted vengeance. My eyes fell on a small glass-front cabinet in the corner. Inside were a couple of bottles of wine and a bottle of Scotch. Mom sometimes drank a small glass of wine in the evening. She never touched anything else, but she had bought the Scotch for her fiancé. That was when I knew how to hurt her. She was always ranting about addiction and my father's bad habits. I'd show her.

I took out a bottle of wine and poured some into one of her fancy wine glasses. I took a sip. I wrinkled my nose. The taste was bonk, sort of like grape juice with an attitude. I wasn't sure why anyone would want to drink a lot of it. After a few glasses, though, I got used to the taste and started to feel empowered.

Man, I can do anything. I'll show her.

I found some markers in her desk and started to graffiti her world, writing liar across a mirror. I put horns on a picture of her. Giggling as I envisioned a green-faced evil woman, I wrote wicked on the doors to her nick-knack cabinet.

When I stood back to admire my handiwork, I was spooked.

What will Mom do to me?

A moment of panic hit. I gulped and looked around wildly.

Maybe a wee bit more liquid courage would help.

I went back to the cabinet, but this time I took out the scotch. I poured some in a shot glass and sort of tossed it back like they do on T.V. I almost choked. When I stopped coughing from the burn in my throat, I felt warmth spread through my body.

Whoa! Who needs three glasses of wine if one shot of Scotch feels this good.

I looked back at the walls.

She'll just have to deal.

Taking the bottle of Scotch and the glass to the couch, I sat down in front of the TV, but the bare wall next to it seemed to taunt me. Inspiration hit, so I got up and weaved over to the wall. When I finished, a dragon spewed fire towards a cowering woman.

Sitting back down, I flipped channels, looking for shows I knew my mother would disapprove of and watched, indulging in an occasional shot during advertisements.