Brian was the crying-est baby in the history of crying babies, but his birth gave my mom a much-needed relief in the marriage.
Brian’s birth rescued my mother.
My father still wasn’t over my mother cheating on him.
Shortly after I was born in 1984, and Bach in 1986, my mother was pregnant again. And seeing her pregnant baby sent him in a fit of rage. He speculated many times that it probably wasn’t even his baby. That it had to be Minh’s baby. He kicked her belly and even stabbed it with a fork once.
In reality, my mom had only slept with Minh that one time and immediately confessed to it. Never daring to even talk to Minh ever again. After all, he threw her under the bus anyway in front of the whole family.
But my father was absolutely terrified of whose baby it really was. He lived and relived his own nightmares in his head. Tormented by thoughts of his wife with another man. He constantly berated my mom and kicked her. And the baby kicked back when she tried to sleep. It seemed my mother’s world was kicking her from the inside and out.
Brian’s birth (1987) saved my mother for just a moment.
And if you’ve ever met my family, you would know exactly why. Unlike me who came out looking more like my “Gambler” uncle than my father, or Bach who looked part Mexican…Brian looked just like my father. He was undeniably my father’s kid. And for just a brief moment, my father calmed down as the universe said, “See?! HE IS YOUR CHILD!”
My mother had no say over her baby’s name. It was my “bitch” aunt who got to name him. She chose the name Brian, and my father agreed with her, that was the baby’s name.
Brian’s scarred heart.
My father was still angry. He still wanted to make a point. He still wanted to punish my mom. One day he picked up a knife and scowled, “I’m going to mark him so every time that you look at him, you’ll remember what you did to me.”
- My mother cried and begged and pleaded with him…“PLEEEEASE! CUT ME INSTEAD! DON’T CUT MY BABY!”
- And in her pleas, my father knew just wear to cut her. He cut a mark on Brian’s chest with the knife…just over his heart.
I actually didn’t know of this story until she told me one day in living in Glendale when I was 34, sobbing as she told it. I guess my mother was ashamed and felt personally responsible for what happened to Brian. So probably she couldn’t bear to tell this story. It seemed everything bad that my father did to her or us was all her fault.
But she did the right thing waiting this long to tell me. Had I known sooner, I would have cut a mark on my father a long long time ago. I don’t think even Disney movies have a villain this evil.
My mother’s escape ruined by Harry’s birth.
My mother just couldn’t seem to escape.
Once Brian was born, my mother seriously contemplated a way to escape her living hell. She couldn’t take it much longer. She had to find a way out. Maybe leave my father and become a single mom. But how would she work or pay the bills? And also take care of 2 kids?
She also considered reconnecting with her family. They had since been in contact because a horrible accident put her father in the hospital. He was biking one rainy night in the dark and a car hit him, sending him flying into the air and hitting his head on the ground when he landed. Her family was in communication with her to deliver the bad news. But still…they never took a break from foul-mouthing my father every other sentence on the phone with her. She was ready to swallow her pride but they sure as heck didn’t make it easy.
My father sensed my mother emotionally pulling away.
This part of the story was never fully told to me but I put it together myself from remarks made by different family members.
Perhaps my father was afraid my mother might run back to Italy with me and Brian, causing him to lose 2 sons and also suffer even more embarrassment for having lost his whole family. So he did the thing that he felt would trap her even more. He got her pregnant one more time.
There are several versions of the story how my last brother came about. One version was that my parents mutually wanted to try for a girl. Another was that my father simply wanted to get her pregnant again to keep her stuck to him. There are still more than I don’t remember.
Harry (born 1989) was named by my parents.
They named him Harry, after Prince Harry of England (Princess Diana’s younger son). He was the lightest skin and cutest one. His temperament also very balanced. He wasn’t as quiet and peaceful as I was but also not as noisy and crying like Brian.
By the time Harry came out, Bach had already gone back to live with his mother’s family in Mexico. Our household was now a picture perfect family of 5…a mother, father, and three boys…all Vietnamese. My dad’s messy past swept under the rug and out of scrutiny by people who didn’t know.
Our family’s public image of perfection
My father especially cared about his image and public reputation.
To most people and his friends…he was the perfect man…a hardworking father of 3 boys, responsible provider of the family, bought a house at age 27 with money made by his bare hands, drove a Mercedes, and could fix anything in house by himself. And my mom, a loyal housewife and dutiful mother of 3 rowdy boys, who cooked and cleaned for everybody. My dad was “super dad” and my mom was “super mom”. We were the picture of the American dream. My parents were both proud that people admired us.
As imperfect as we were, even my parents families couldn’t criticize them too much.
- My father’s family felt that despite being a not-so-good husband, he still managed to provide for his family. And his good-for-nothing cheating wife was still a good wife to stay home and raise the kids.
- My mother’s family felt that despite not being a good person, still managed to provide the family with a house and food, and that my mom didn’t have to work (like Vito’s wife did). Although they hardly knew how badly she was treated.
If anything, my father’s family had more reason to criticize him than my mother. They told him, “Hey, at least your terrible wife is doing her part. You should also be a good father and taking care of the kids. Instead of running around with other girls.”
And my mother’s family likewise felt more reason to criticize her than her husband. “Your loser husband is doing his part and providing, but ARGHHHH…why did you have to marry and have kids with that fool?!” As much as she wanted to tell her family how poorly she was being treated, she also knew it would break their hearts. They already hated him anyway, especially her sister (who talks negatively of him every chance she gets).
But the reality was still the same.
My dad was still hanging around coffeeshops, out with his friends late into the night. Coming home and leaving whenever he wanted. Not explaining about his whereabouts or why he was late to take her grocery shopping and doctor’s appointments.
And mom had no right to ever question him…not unless she wanted to be punished emotionally or physically. She was a 2nd-class citizen in that house, who’s only job was to cook, clean, take care of the kids, and have sex. If she dare cried, she was punished even more.
Their roles of abuser and abusee was set in stone forever.