the barber's family vs. the freak family

Last week, I took [Son] to get a much needed haircut. We went to [Husband’s] barber, Ken, a really nice Vietnamese man in his early fifties (although like most Asians, he's enviably thin and much younger looking). He and his wife run a no-frills salon owned by Ken's cousin. I get the idea they don't have much money, because he is always talking to [Husband] about our travels and how much he (Ken) wants to go to Europe, but he doesn't have the money and has to work hard. Ken spent something like 7 years in a Viet Cong POW camp. His wife raised their son during this time alone, and when Ken was released, they had two more daughters and then moved here. His wife Helen is beautiful and doesn't look like a mother of three grown children. If she weren't so nice, I'd hate her ;-) Ken adores his children and always talks about them proudly. His daughters sometimes come into the salon to help their folks out. Ken gets up at like 5 AM and runs several miles a day. He wants me to go with him sometime, but he runs an 8:40 mile, and I can't sustain that for more than two minutes probably. Ken's son recently got married, and he showed me the photo of his family with the bride. They were all beaming. My father was glowering the whole time at my wedding, ruining the mood, ruining the photos, and ruining the memory. Ken and Helen worked hard to give their kids a good life, and now their kids are helping them out. They love their children and their children love them. This is the way it should be, and the way it usually is. When I took [Son] in to get cleaned up, Ken asked me if I go to visit my mother much. Harmless enough question, and one which I get all the time. I always answer that it's too difficult with three kids, so she usually comes to visit me. The truth is, I never go there. I can't. The memories are too bad. And when my father was alive, I never went even when I had no kids. I used to tell people that I was too busy, and that my mom enjoys coming up to the Bay Area (and who wouldn't, from Roswell, NM?). 

How would I tell people the truth: -that I hadn't seen my father for 9 years at the time he died, and that we weren't talking even before that? 

-that I could never call home? 

-that my mother would call us, and hurriedly hang up when she heard my father coming home?

 -that any physical mail I wanted to send to my mother had to be sent to her at work?

 -that my father doesn't speak to my mother? Or just berates her when he does? 

-that my sister doesn't go home either?

 -that when someone asked my father where I was living now he said "I don't know anything about [me]"?

 Ken is such a nice man that I'm sure he'd understand if I told him the whole story, but it would be a little awkward. Ken and Helen are lucky parents, and their kids are very lucky as well. They may not have much money right now, but they are really a perfect family. [Husband] always tips him $5 on his $12 haircut, and tells me that he hopes that Ken and Helen can make it to Europe sometime soon. People try to tell me that I'm not the weird one, that my father was. Yes, my father was weird, but this is just a small glimpse of how we had to live because of him. Isn't that weird? How could you not see someone as weird when they know you live like that?