TOUCH

Forty Seven.

Jordan left Chrissy's house shortly after the conversation. Not before telling her that her French toast was the worst she's ever tasted, and then thanking her for her efforts anyway.

When she got into her car, she did not take the route home. Atleast not to her current home. Instead, she followed the path towards her past home. That is if it should even be called home.

It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a dungeon she'd been trapped in for the first eight years of her life. And the woman that lived with her was a fire spitting dragon, as her words burnt the insides of the person she spat them at.

She never enjoyed to reminisce of the past, but she couldn't help it as she drove through her old neighborhood. In the streets she always wanted to play at, but was forced to stay indoors by her own over thinking, and by the insecurities shoved into her brain by the woman who brought her into this Earth. That she was not good enough for the other children. Because they all added value into their parent's lives, while Jordan brought nothing but stress and distraught into her mother's.

Simply for being needy. She was fortunate for the roof over her head, for other children were left homeless by their mothers. She was privileged to have clothes on her back and food in her stomach for other children wore the same clothes everyday, and only ate once a week. Her mother was a glorious woman, for she was unlike other mothers, who threw their children in orphanages, or left them in doorsteps never to be found again. How lucky she was that her mother never laid a hand on her, because other mothers would abuse and hit their children daily.

These are the words that were spoken to her every day. It never occurred to Jordan, that her mother seemed to compare herself to the worst of mothers, instead of the best.

She never told her daughter that, unlike other good parents, she was a better parent for buying five toys rather than one. Because she never even got her a single one. She would never claim that, unlike those so called "good parents", that cooked for their children only every other night, and lazily bought unhealthy take out on some, she was the best mother, as she cooked for her children every single night, to ensure that they had warm home cooked meals. Because she never cooked. Not once. She barely bought enough food. Terry wouldn't dare compare herself to a good mother, who spared a few hours from her day, to take her children to the park, or for ice cream. She'd never roll her eyes in ridicule, bragging about how she spent every second with her children. Because she never did. Instead, she was out all day, and asleep all night.

Only good parents compared themselves to other good parents. And bad parents, compared themselves to worst parents. To make themselves feel better about how they treated their children. Because if they were being honest, it bugged them to see a mother taking her children out for ice-cream without yelling about how they should be thankful to even have ice-cream.

The only thing that made Jordan all the more upset, was knowing that her bad parent was simply a fellow child, living in an adults body. Trying to deal with adult things while still dealing with child emotions that were never conquered. They were people with ghosts, and while they were haunted, they scared away everyone else. Those who leave are fortunate, while those who don't have no choice but to stay, will inherit the ghost, and take it to their children. So, says the circle of life.

Jordan knew Terry was home. The door to the old, yellow painted one story house was wide open, revealing the hallway her and Maya would run through when playing tag in the house.

She got out of her car, closing the door, and hesitantly making her way towards the house. As she walked, she wondered if it would be the right time to go back. To forget her conversation with Chrissy. To pretend it never happened.