The End of My Story



It’s a Tuesday and I’m in my room. I’ve been staring at the white walls for about five minutes, and it was getting ridiculous so now I’ve decided to write.

I’ve sat long and hard thinking about how my life could be if things were different. I’ve thought about how things would be if I had a mom who actually wanted her children and actually loved them.

I’ve thought about how life could be I had a father who knew his children. Hell I’d be happier than I am now if he at least wanted to see us and my mother kept us away. And it’s not even that he doesn’t know we exist. He knows.

When I was little about seven years old, I remember she was on the phone with my father in the kitchen. It was late at night, I don’t remember exactly what time, but I woke up thirsty and couldn’t sleep so I went to get a glass of water. I heard her talking in a hush tone before she saw me so I stood behind the wall, listening.

“Come on, I need you to get these children. . . What the hell do you mean you can’t? John I have raise these little shits long enough on my own now you need to contribute. Fine John, I’m the whore, but baby I get damn good treatment. I’m getting the vacations, the clothes, the money, anything I ask for I get. It’s a whole lot better than being with you. I hate you and you need to get these god damn kids!”

Like I said before, she’s mom of the year.

The only one I wouldn’t change is my brother. But you already knew that, right Shyla?

Well I guess I’ll call it a day.