Diary

I bought a car today. I had to. I need to get around, and my uterus is killing me.

It’s not too fancy, just a little Nissan that’s used. It’s a light blue color, Roxy seems to like it. She loves sitting in the back seat, because it’s big. It has a cassette and CD player; win –fucking- win, right? I can play some music for my kids.

It cost about how much I make working at the diner for 3 weeks straight. I’m not mad at all. I still have a lot of money; after paying a lot of bills off. Everything seems to be going well.

We also went school shopping today. She starts her first day of kindergarten on the 30th. She never really experienced life with other little kids around, except at the playground and one play date with Finn’s kids.

I’ve been teaching her to be polite, saying please and thank you. Teaching her to share is the easiest, because she use to share with my dad a lot. She knows when to ask for more and when to stop. Our kid is quite polite. More polite than I was at that age.

I bought her a comfortable pair of shoes today, and some cute salt water sandals, in black. She picked them out.

The clothes were pretty easy too; she styles herself after you. Almost every t-shirt she picked had some form of black to it. Even the jeans were black. I swear this kid is a carbon copy of you; either that, or she’s trying to be you.

One of the things she asked me today sort of broke my heart. Crushed it. Stomped on it. Fucking ate it.

She asked me how come you didn’t come back. She asked now that I was writing where were you. She’s been counting the days, since I started writing, wondering how long it would take for you to come back.

“Rox, remember, we talked about this?” She shook her head at me.

“Grandma said he’s coming back! He promised!”

That’s when my heart complete fell out of my chest cavity. It killed me. It fucking broke my heart.

The only thing I could do was curse Donna, curse myself, and curse you. Poor Roxy started to cry the second I couldn’t answer. She beat her feet against the seat for a minute, until she stopped herself. It was weird seeing her that way. She looked like a teenager having a true fit, but she’s only 5 years old. She’s just a little kid. A fucking child.

When she settled, she laid herself on the seat, buried her head into her arms and sighed heavily. She didn’t make any noise until I had to get her out the car. Her little glasses were stuck under her chin, her cheeks were stained with the tear residue, and her eyes were puffy and closed.

If you saw this, I think your cold, dark heart would melt from its icy residence.

I honestly don’t know to do about her. What exactly could I do to mend her heart? A call from you would probably set her right. If you could just acknowledge that she was still alive, that she was still your daughter, and that maybe, just a pinch of maybe, that you love her still; she won’t be so sad anymore.

I can’t kiss it all away like boo-boos, I can’t give her a treat to make her feel better, and I can’t fill that black hole with toys and gifts. The physical things don’t matter unless the internal things are satisfied. Material things don’t matter; love does. I hope you can see that. I sure as hell hope you can feel it.