Mother’s Day had just passed. I don’t mention my parents often. It’s not because I don’t love them or appreciate their contributions to my life, it’s more for their own safety and protection. I’ve made a growing number of enemies over the years, and having my parents suffer for my actions is not something that would sit well with me. It’s even why I didn’t go by my given name, but rather the moniker of Roc Wieler, well, one of the reasons anyway.

My mother knew how to get in touch with me when needed. She was respectful and proud, following my career through the holos, only contacting me on days like Mother’s Day, or my birthday. To be honest, after spending twenty years as a slave, I had forgotten when my birthday was, so appreciated her for the gentle reminder.

When I received her comm, I figured it was because of the special occasion. As her son, I knew I should’ve been the one contacting her, but to her and I it didn’t matter, so long as we spoke.

“Hey mom.” I began, feeling like her child once again. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Son, it’s your father.” she replied.

My father and I had never been close. I could fill pages in this journal with reasons why: abusiveness, emotionally crippled, passive/aggressive, dead beat, an angry fool living in a make believe kingdom of his own creation and destruction, those are but a few of the feelings I possessed towards him when he was still alive. 

He had been the epitomy of what a Brutor was hundreds of years ago: didn’t share emotion, worked hard to provide for his family, never complained about his station in life, disciplined his brood physically and excessively, distrusted and feared technology, the quintessential Brutor male. 

He had been hot and cold. While he had possessed great intelligence and a wicked sense of humour, he was untempered, raw, driven by his emotions alone, saying what he was experiencing without filter. Inevitably this had led to him alienating everyone ever close to him personally and professionally except my mother, leaving him an angry and bitter man. Honestly, I didn’t know how she had even put up with him. 

I did have to thank him for many of the characteristics I possessed, but moreso I detested him for many of the obstacles I had to overcome as an individual to become my own man. I wasn’t blaming my father for my shortcomings; merely recognizing the root of the problem and taking responsibility to deal with it myself. There is nobody to blame for who we are but ourselves.

Still, he had been my father, and at the time of this tale, was still full of angry life.

“What’s going on?” I asked, suddenly concerned. My parents weren’t rich, though I did make sure they had enough to get by. My father wouldn’t accept anything more. Though he should’ve retired years ago after a career ending hydraulic lift accident, he went from being a mechanic to a taxi driver; both of these a far cry from the military service he started his adult life with. He was a stubborn old coot; another characteristic we had in common.

“Your father got robbed at work.”

I was actually shocked to hear he was working. Last I had heard my father had his taxi license revoked for blowing up at a city hall clerk viciously; they in turn banning him for life from the municipal building and any municipal employment.

“He got a taxi license for the city next to us, and just started this week.” my mother continued. “He got a call to a dead end alley, and there was two guys there for him to pick up. The one went around to the passenger side. That’s when the other one by the driver side pulled a gun on your father.” I could hear the fear creeping into her voice, and knew she was on the verge of tears.

“Your father knocked the gun away, and floored it in reverse, while the passenger side guy leaned in and kept punching him in the face.” my mother said.

“Is he ok?” I asked, genuine concern for the bastard in my voice.

“He’s fine, not even shaken up. He’s just glad they didn’t get his $50.” My mother let the words sink in.

Fifty bucks. My father had recklessly endangered his life for fifty bucks. Sometimes I just couldn’t fathom the man’s thought processes. 

He was the only one able to work, my mother’s physical health having deteriorated over the years. She refused cybernetics, preferring to be crippled than to not be human. That was something her and I disagreed on. She was afraid being part machine would steal your soul. I loved her too much to tell her otherwise.

“But he’s ok?” I continued.

“Yes, he’s fine. But why would they do such a thing?” my mother pleaded with me.

“I wish I could tell you, mom. The more I fight for our people the more I question if maybe the galaxy wouldn’t be better off without any of us messing it up.”

We spent the next half hour catching up, me mostly listening, my mother mostly telling me each and every detail of their lives since last we spoke. I realized then where I got my gift for speaking from; the woman could just go on and on incessantly.

“Look, mom.” I finally interjected. “I hate to go,” I lied, “but I need to get some things done. I’ll try to call more often.” I lied again. “I love you.”

“Love you too, son. You take care of yourself out there ok?” she said.

“I always do.” I smiled. It was our familiar farewell, and it left us both feeling secure.

I’d take a little security where I could get it. Seemed it was in growing demand.