I don't get it.

Sometimes I just don't understand how some people think.

I mean, what the hell can run through some peoples minds?

My mom was with a man from the time I was about 9 or 10 until I was 18. In fact, they were together when she was a teenager, he was her 'first'.

I was told by an uncle of mine that this man could be my father.

My mom was highly pissed and denied this.

After seeing my real dads family, I look just like most of them. So, I believe her.

Then again, I was never 100% positive. I mean, we had the same hair color and eye color.

The when my oldest daughter was born, she was born with webbed toes. Yes, webbed. On both feet. The one next to the big toe and the middle ones. Webbed halfway up. She hates it. I wanted to get it fixed, but her daddy didn't want to put her through any pain. She wishes he would have let me do it. She can't stand wearing open-toed shoes...

Also, my second child? He has this on only one foot.

Anyway, I went off the subject.

This mans mom saw my daughter's feet and almost freaked. Because her late husband had the same thing. I think she really believed I may have been her granddaughter.

And when I saw my mom was with him, I mean they lived together the majority of that time.

I didn't live with them the whole time, though. I lived with my grandma some, off and on.

They also got married, but near the end.

See, he was a drunk. When he was drunk, he was a total asshole. A mean, fighting, beat up on his woman type of drunk.

I hated him for that.

But, I loved him.

He did for me more than his own kids. They were all jealous of me, because he didn't do that for them. They were all older than me, adults.

Him and my mom had some terrible fights. I mean, bloody, tear the house and cars up Kinda fights. Police coming, throw paint thinner on a newly painted car, bust out windows kinda fights. The kind where he could be foaming at the mouth and I would have to sit on him and hold his hands and arms down when I was 13 kinda fights. Where he's going to throw a huge ass rock through my car windshield right over top of my baby's head cause I brought her some cigarettes and she throws a huge ass rock and break his jaw that needs wiring shut kinda fights. Where he would rip the phone cords out of the walls so I wouldn't call the police kinda fights.

Then of course they made up, usually the next day. But, by then, the furniture and house were destroyed.

My mom always said it was all his fault. well, not all the time. I was there. I HEARD and SAW what she said and did. Gave him no right to beat her. He would try to leave and she wouldn't let him.

So, I would say it was a 50/50 kinda thing.

Yes, I admit I did love him. How? Why? I don't know.

Maybe because it wasn't always like that. There were good times, too.

Mom calls today and were talking.

"You know _____ died Friday, didn't you?"

huh.... wha....

NO, I didn't know that.

"He's being buried today"

"I wish I had of known before today"

"I thought you didn't like him."

okay....

I just don't know what to say. How should I feel about this?

Yes, I hated him sometimes. Yes, I could have killed him at times.

But, he was there for me when my dad wasn't.

When times were good, they were really good.

Why do people want to tell me AFTER the fact that someone I cared about died? Huh? I don't get it.

Am I not allowed to say goodbye?

Am I not allowed to grieve?