I am a neglected parent. A father who’s been driven away from his daughter’s life. Slowly, but surely. I have lived without seeing or hearing my daughter’s voice, or having news about her for two and a half years now, though it seems a lot more. It seems a whole life.
The names in this narrative are all fictional or just initials of fictional names, except for those I relly care about. The events are real, told by me, the character who has lived them things on his own pulses and in the subjective way I perceived them. Of course, there might be alternative facts, different and posthumous truths to be claimed or revealed by any other actor in this play, but this is my story, told by me myself and no one else.
The events in this narrative do not follow a precise timeline but are told following the incoherent thread of my memories. My narrative is in fact both an act of digging with an imaginary pen and a partially reliable recollection of perceived feelings brought about by events no one shall be able to tell in a completely objective fashion. I suppose there do be a lot of blank spots, lost days, foggy memories I may not be able to reconstruct while I tell my story, or just simply place in the picture.
The language used to tell the story is my own language, meaning not what conventionally goes by my mother tongue, but the language I have lived my story in. That is English. That is a particular variety of English which was molded in Rome, North Dublin, and Mayo. Pre-eminently North Dublin. It has gone through the influence of Italian teachers of English, Italian, English and Irish Lecturers, bus drivers, fish’n chips shops workers, lawyers, publicans, farmers, poets, musicians.
This is my story. The way I know it.