Every morning I would wake up and remember that she was one more day closer to her death. None of us knew when she was going to leave us, but we knew she would soon. It would seem that my mum was my dad and mines savior. She was a fighter who would keep fighting till the end no matter how tough it might get. She would fight to see us all together just for one more day. She was our hero and savior.
It was on the 15th of May when she passed. She had made it through my birthday which she told me was her goal, and she met it. On the 14th of May at 3:34 AM, I was born. My mum was alive and able to see me grow one more year older, before leaving this world behind yet I knew you couldn’t leave a heart behind. I knew she would always remember the life she had on earth, and the time she spent with her daughter and husband. She would remember us, I knew she would.
A couple months after she passed, my dad had gotten a job transfer which was moving him to Minnesota. Seriously, I don’t even know why they moved him to the states; we live in London for crying out loud, Minnesota is like half way across the world.
My dad wasn’t so happy about moving. We had lived in the same house since I was born; it was the first and only house that we had a family in. My mum, my dad, and I all lived in that house for eight and a half years. Once my mum had gotten to the point where she needed to be hospitalized, we weren’t all living together.
It was hard to see our house, the one we had lived in for so long, getting smaller and smaller as we moved farther and farther away. It was something that was really tough on me because that was the only house that I knew my mother in. She was half of me which made me realise how much I was going to miss that house because if my mother was half of me, then our house was half of me.
Over the years it had started to get a little better, and my dad started to adapt a lot better with being a single parent. I looked up to my dad, and I trusted him with my whole heart. He was the only thing that I had left in my life that I cared for more than I could show him.
I was fifteen at the time when I got my first official boyfriend, except this boyfriend wasn’t actually a normal boyfriend. The relationship we had used to be fine in the start, until he slapped me. It was just one slap, who cares; well it wasn’t just one slap. After that slap, he started to beat me to the point where I was bleeding, almost to death a couple times.
My dad knew, he was the first and only one I told about what was happening. He was the only one I could trust.
Every single night I would talk to my dad, he was my comforting soul. He would always tell me to tell the police about it, but for sure, I couldn’t. Axcel, my abusive boyfriend, always told me that he’d kill me if I ever told anyone, especially the police. It was scary to think what he would do to me if he found out that I told my father about him.
For the longest time, I wanted to leave him. A few times I’ve broken up with him, but he never wants to break up. He always tells me, and I quote, “I will never let you break up with me, you’re my little play toy. You are my object to play around with, and you’ll never be leaving me. You’ll be mine forever, don’t even think that I’d let you leave me.” So, that’s how I’ve been living my life, as a little play object. All I’m ever used for is his pleasure, which is never a good type of pleasure. Well, for him it might be, but for me it’s not.
I would like to think that he would eventually get tired of me and let me go, but I knew that he never would. I was his, and only his.
If I was lucky, which I never was, he would either let me go or die. Sometimes I thought that dying wouldn’t be that bad of an option. With the things I’ve been through, it’s somewhat acceptable.
“Summer, dinner's ready.” My dad called from downstairs. I was up in a millisecond, rushing downstairs. Who could blame me, I was hungry.
My nostrils are filled with the soothing smell of wild rice hot dish. That is one of my absolute favourite meals that my dad makes. It's one that is more of comfort food, warm comfort food. He had been making it since I was probably around the age of five; my dad was the cooker in the family.
I plant my bum on the wooden table chair with a huge smile on my face looking at my dad. “It smells amazing," A large metal pot was placed in the center of the table before everyone was seated; well only my dad and I, but still, it was everyone.
“Your birthday's coming up,” Was said before a half smile, half frown was drawn to my face.
“I know," A whisper, nothing more than a whisper it was said in.
It was always a depressingly happy time when it came around to my birthday. Most of the time it was only my dad and I celebrating my birthday because we lived so far away from our immediate family, which made it hard for some to travel, but even though our relatives couldn’t come, my birthday was always missing a certain person.
“Your mum would’ve been proud of you for staying strong after all these years." His half smile told me there was more. “Times are tough now, but you still get through them. I’m proud of you, she’s proud of you.” I knew what he meant; I always knew what he meant.
As I fell asleep that night, I was thinking about everything that has happened over the years and what I’d like to come next. I know that people can’t really know what their future is going to be like, but I’d like to think I do. I’d like to think that the journey I’m taking will make a big detour for the best, but I’m not too sure if that will ever happen. It all depends on what fate brings me, and even my dad.