As I took the phone away from my ear, the cold green screen told me I had been connected to my father for seven minutes and fifty-one seconds. It was just long enough to tell him that the coupling from the wedding he wasn't able to attend had dissolved. It was long enough to tell him that the officer whose commissioning he missed is now in Virginia. I think we both made a joke about officers... I was actually able to laugh.    Six minutes. He was on someone else's phone, so he didn't want to tie up the guy's line. No, he doesn't have an address just yet, but I can send my number and new address to a friend of his. He'll buy a phone card. He loves me. He'll talk to me later. And then it was over. Seven minutes and fifty-one seconds had passed.

    I remember the slow lessons in how not to believe anything my father said he would do. There was the year I got an IOU from Santa... At first this sounds like it's about the object, but the problem had absolutely nothing to do with the space in our livingroom where there was supposed to be a bike on Christmas morning. It took two years to get the bike. That was the last promise my dad ever kept. As the years passed and the broken promises amassed, I always forgave the empty ones for material things; they didn't really matter in the long run. I was even used to him not coming to band concerts or school plays because of work; but when, for the first time in just over a decade he missed my birthday, that hurt. Christmas was painful too, though that sting wasn't quite as sharp as the first one I had experienced the previous August.     The divorce never bothered me. I knew it wasn't my fault. I never wished for my parents to get back together. I didn't cry to my friends or write bad poetry about it. I'm still not a good person to talk to if you need help coping with your own parents' divorce. "Suck it the fuck up. I did," is the standard response in my mind during those conversations. No. The actual split never got under my skin.    My father, however, has managed to threaten what I like to think is some small semblance of emotional stability... I have cried watching other little girls with their fathers in ice cream stores. Me! The one who doesn't cry at movie theatres showing the biggest blockbusters--you know the ones; they win all the awards and soak every eye in the house. Sometimes, I don't know if I'm crying because I miss him or because I'm mad at him. Whenever people ask me about him, I shrug it off and explain that he's a good guy, really, but he's just not very responsible. He moves--usually because he's lost a job--and forgets to tell us new numbers (when he can afford a phone, that is). You know, things like that...     I understand why my father can't come through on some of the things he promises--particularly when he can't be there because something "came up." I find it a little more difficult to understand how he can neglect to tell us for months when said issues came up. I've gotten used to it, but it still hurts my little brother. Cody is the only reason I muster up the energy to even get mad at him anymore. It would be one thing if he just couldn't do stuff. It's a completely different kind of hurt when he promises those things and then takes them back without explanation.     I love my father. I hate what he does to me. I hate that someone is able to hurt me inside that much. I hate how he hurts my little brother. There are so many things that I hate about him, but I'm tired of being mad. I would say that I'm almost willing to give him a second chance, but if my memory serves me correctly, he's already established a pattern of little to no effort in that arena. His birthday is coming up. I suppose I can send him a card now that I have an address. I will send my number, as he asked. I haven't yet decided if I should take the chance that he will actually buy a phone card or if I should just enclose one.