chocolate milk

I attended my father's third wedding today. I have not lived with him since I was a small child. I have distanced myself from him over the years. When I met his soon-to-be wife before the ceremony, she kissed me on both cheeks, but her eyes were cold.

Before I arrived I was happy that I would finally be able to stop feeling guilty and responsible for his sadness and I was thrilled for him not to be alone. But for an instant I was the eight-year old girl who had to spend weekends away from her friends, in her father's sparse apartment. As I recall, there was little joy there. I looked forward to the smallest of things, like how he allowed me to drink as much chocolate milk as I wanted and play his records for hours. The music we listened to was entirely up to me. These fews simple things made leaving my life behind and keeping my father company on the weekend manageable, until one day a woman moved in and put an end to that joy. She did not want me to be hyper so I could no longer have chocolate. In hindsight I see that she just did not want me to exist.

My father has since moved on and so have I. The distance has settled in, making firm tracks. Mostly I am ok with this. Afterall, it is what I have always wanted. It is my relief, only when I met this woman today I could see it in a breath. If that little girl in me ever changes her mind, it is too late.

Sold to the women who does not care if I ever have chocolate milk again.