Beauty Loves to Lie

PROLOGUE

Emilia

My mother is the epitome of perfection and beauty. Every article of  clothing ideally placed. Every move calculated. Every word thoroughly  thought through before being spoken. Every single little thing must  always be organized. Every stage of her life was planned.

Having children was not a part of that plan. Having children was not a part of that perfection. As I said, she loves everything perfectly placed. Children make messes. She did not like messes.

My father on the other hand was the most carefree person I ever knew. He  loved to take spontaneous trips. Loves art and architecture. He saw the  beauty in the ill-favored. He didn't mind the messes and made the best  of them.

To this day I still don't understand how they "fell in love". I think my  father liked the fact that my mother was a challenge. He loved that he  could get a reaction out of her in the best way possible. I don't  understand what my mother saw.

My father understood that my mother didn't want a child and respected that  despite longing for offspring. By some miracle, or curse, I happened.  My father believed I was the angel to bring light to the world. My  mother believed I was the demon to wreak havoc on it. 

Despite never admitting it, I knew my mother considered an abortion and my  father would've been the one to talk her out of it. The pregnancy was rough,  and my mother never ceases to remind me. But both of my parents claim  that when they first saw me, their world turned upside down, for better  or worse.

After I was born my mother finally saw the beauty in having a child. Someone  who she could love unconditionally, and who could love her  unconditionally. My father didn't need me to be in front of his face to  realize that. 

Needless to say, they had vastly different parenting styles that often clashed. Their words directed towards each other would be the equivalent of the searing aftertaste of acid crawling up your throat. Regardless, their love for me still poured through the cracks and they swallowed the acid with a fabricated smile. 

It couldn't hold them together forever though. They inevitably got a divorce when I was 12. My devastation was hidden behind impassive features. I knew I was the cause of their split, but neither one of my parents would dare to say it out loud. Especially not to my face. I moved in with my father and rarely heard from or saw my mother due to her moving back to her home country of Korea.

That was until age 15 when I came home to my father's blood-stained body lying  in the middle of the front corridor of his isolated mansion. A gun in  his right hand. A bouquet of flowers and a piece of paper in his left.  His lifeless eyes staring at me. 

The paper read: Emilia. My blue jay. My only love. I'm sorry.

His death was ruled as a suicide. His death was blamed on me. His death was... disconcerting.

His will had been set since the day I was born with 11 simple words.

Everything I own goes to my daughter, Emilia Jade Auclair Park.

His house, hidden by natural seclusion.

His cars named in titles of luxury.

Down to his last million.

None of which I had access to until age 18.

My mother quickly moved back to the United States. She was my only source of comfort after my father's death. 

Her beautiful life of perfection became mine.

Sometimes it would be overwhelming. It  would feel like I was drowning under tumultuous waves and polluted air.  But then I remember every parent wants the best for their child. She  reminds me that she loves me and will always be there for me.

Then the turbulent sea calms and the sunlight peaks through suffocating clouds. And in that brief tranquility, that's when I remember... I am the epitome of perfection and beauty.

But perfection loves to lie.