You’re the only girl who, at sixteen, has more than a promise ring on your left hand.

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You have a doll named Gatsby when you’re five, and a baby when you’re eighteen; he’s named after the doll because the doll was your best friend, and the baby looks like a doll. With a squished in face and a puggy little nose.

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At twenty six, you change the locks though it’ll do no good, and let your kids light a bag of your dog’s shit on fire in front of His new appartment. It would be easier if you cried. You’re almost too sad to do that. He broke you. And no one was ever supposed to be able to do that; you were supposed to take care of yourself and you were supposed to make sure none of the pieces fell apart. You’re a spurned lover; you’re a bitter, bitter woman with stretch marks on your ass and cottage cheese thighs. You’ve got love handles and frown lines, you’ve got your babies tattooed on your wrists. You’ve got this proverbial black rain cloud over your head, and a burnt Christmas roast in the stove. Your mother pats down your hair and twists it in to complicated knots like she did when you were little.

“He’ll realize what he’s missing soon enough, love,” she says, snapping a rubber band in to place. “You can’t just take twelve years away from a woman and expect  her to understand, can you?”

Charlotte screws up her eyes. “I guess not.”

“Darling.”

“It’s my fault.”

She yanks, hard, on the braid she’s just finished. “Don’t you [i]dare[/i] say that, Charlotte. I raised you better than that!” 

It makes her feel worse, really. That she’s disappointing her mother who’s never done anything but love her unconditionally. Who walked her down the aisle when she was sixteen because she was the said girl everyone thought was knocked up as well as being the girl with the dead dad. The professor that put a noose around his neck and hit the ground with a cigarette still ashing between his fingers. The man was manufactured to destroy people; just as soon as we was finished destroying himself. Leaving behind ungraded papers and a little germ burned baby girl who cried so hard at the funeral she couldn’t breathe. Her mother forces her to look at her and scowls. “What would your father say, Charlotte? Do you think he’d want you to take the same route that he did? [i]Huh[/i]?” She supposes not—doesn’t say anything,regardless. 

“He wouldn’t, would he? I can tell you that he wouldn’t! And if you don’t want to take a dead man’s word for it, take mine. You are better than him. You are better than this.” Could have been a motivational speaker, Mrs. Drake. Like those people on television who speak in to big microphones and tell everyone what’s wrong with their lives and how to fix it. People would believe her, because she tops six feet and dresses in smart, pleated pants and skinny tops over heels that make her tower over the tallest men and she doesn’t care.  

You rest your head in your hands. No one can make you feel as shitty as your mother does. Even though all she wants for you is to get back your fight. You fuck up your life and she’ll never forgive you. You’ll never forgive yourself. You still don’t forgive yourself for thinking about the straight and fast like a selfish cunt; taking steep and thorny way instead of toughing this one out. Climbing the mountain and learning to breathe and all that bullshit everyone’s always telling you to do now like they know what it’s like. Sal peeks into the room and toddles in on his thick legs he’s still learning how to use.

“Okay, Mummy?” He asks, putting his hands on top of yours. You give him this pathetic, watery smile and take him up in your arms. 

“I’m good, babe.” 

“Okay!” Sal gives you as big as a hug he can manage.

Your mother gives you a long look afterwards. “You still have them, darling.”

“I know.”

“Good.”