Cup of Joe

He drank coffee. I drank apple juice.

It's become routine; I drop four of the five rugrats off at school by 8:30 a.m. and have a small coffee with two creams and one sugar in my hands from the Canadian delicacy, Tim Hortons, by 8:35 a.m. My stepdad, with a small dark roast, joins my toddler and me as we catch up and discuss the daily plans.

This is my tremendous recovery. 

I know you're thinking, “What the fuck, Breanna?” Or perhaps not, but I'm about to explain to you the deep-rooted trauma I have with a ‘Cup of Joe.’

He loves it. Is there a word more potent than that active verb? Let me put it this way: he went $3000 into debt to travel to Calgary to purchase a Rancilio Cappuccino Machine. While this appears to be a minor detail in the grand scheme of my life story, this man and his wife loathe me. He is the equivalent of a backstabbing friend who tattletales on you at every opportunity in hopes of getting you kicked out of the friend group while garnering brownie points. 

I was the butt of the joke. There is no active memory of me drinking a cup of coffee. I drank apple juice.

I hear their voices now,  “You’re such a child, Bre. Are you ever going to grow up? Toddlers drink juice, not adults.” What’s worse is the laughter. When my “friends” or ex-husband would go on a coffee run, they would snicker at the expense of the apple juice and me. Eventually, I trained myself to get a degree for semi-adulthood by ordering ‘Iced Capps’ and, in silence, enduring the headaches they brought about.

Without trade school, I constructed the wall myself quite brilliantly. His hands were in my personal life without my consent. With every covert touch he made, a brick I laid. He made a life’s earning, making my business his business. His days were spent twisting my life details while orchestrating cult meetings with himself, myself and the elders. The first meeting out of the plethora I went on to sit in with him had him roll up to my tear-stained face on an office chair, pointing his finger and screaming, “ I KNEW THERE WOULD BE TEARS; YOU ALWAYS CRY!” He is the epitome of Christian conduct. 

You can’t go to his house without being punched out by the aroma of coffee. Coffee is everywhere. His veins bleed the liquid gold. There are 3 lb bags of green coffee beans piled on the floor, and a bean roaster and a cappuccino machine take up an entire counter. For people who don't believe in science, he has the science behind a fabulous ‘Cup of Joe’ aced. He critiques every cup he consumes. He flatters himself on the premise that he can pick out a cup of *Folgers coffee from a lineup. I always wanted to test that theory, but I was too busy ‘bricklaying’ while prepping for our next cult meeting brawl. 

He hated my mother but stood as a groomsman at the marriage union of my parents in 1988. His hate for her did not dissipate. Instead, it grew, and with a surplus without anywhere to go, it trickled down directly to me. My first interaction with him did not happen until 2006, indirectly through my Dad, telling my Dad to get control of me after his wife, while ironing, found a love letter addressed to me located in the pocket of his oldest son’s khakis. 

In 2006, he punctured a hole in my side. With every sip of coffee he took, my demise he plotted. With every sip of apple juice I took my uprising, I designed. 

On March 5, 2011, and for the following 10.5 years, he took the full-time position of being the thorn in my side when he became my Father-In-Law. 

I was the last on his and his wife’s list of cult girls they wanted their son to marry. No, I didn't make the list. On my first date to their house for Sunday lunch, all I received was, “ Hello, Breanna.” The silence was screaming, and the screaming evolved into glass-shattering octaves into my face.

This man did not mention or welcome me into his family during his ‘Father of the Groom’ speech at my wedding. It took a man whose wife had passed two fucking days before to give him the reality check that he had intentionally left me out. He pitted my sister-in-law against me and vice versa more often than not. He whined to the cult elders when I made a parenting choice he disagreed with & claimed they were his grandchildren first before they were my children. For example: “You will not vaccinate my grandchildren.” They are vaccinated. He did not hug me because he would feel my boobs on his chest if he did. He dragged me to the pits of hell every time I gave him a Christmas gift. He dared to arraign the finances of my marriage while going into debt over coffee. 

The hate he had for me was so powerful that after all of my bricklaying to protect myself, I came to be a person I didn't know in the name of keeping the family peace. 

To this day, I have never drank a ‘Cup of Joe’ this man’s hands have touched. Coffee, in all forms, from the aroma to the sounds of it grinding to the pour reminded me of him and the pain he caused until January 18th, 2024. 

 I was meeting a mentor of mine. I pulled into the parking lot, and I was filled with conviction. I don't know the vehicle they drive, and I have been excommunicated from having any contact with them, but nagging my stomach was the reality of them being here. As I walked to the cafe entrance, my heart raced. The last time I saw them was in March of 2018, at my final cult service, and the last time I interacted with them was on WhatsApp, denying them alone time with my children post-cult. With a kind human holding the door open for me as they were exiting, I entered. There, with a ‘ Cup of Joe’ in his hands, sat my ex-father-in-law and his wife. 

I didn't order an apple juice. This time, I enjoyed a latte. I confidently glowed as I stood at the ordering counter in front of them in my blue jeans and high-heeled, over-the-knee boots. They were covered in shame as I walked past, with no eye contact given. Just as on that first lunch date, a measly “Hello, Breanna” followed by silence.

With every morning coffee I drink, a handful of coffee beans is in his roaster, burning.

My uprising. My tremendous recovery.