Cinderella's Diary

THREE

THREE

        I’m ushered into a ghost of a home. Well, technically, that was many years ago. At a time, my parents were experiencing uphill and downhill struggles in their rocky married relationship. It wasn’t like that anymore. For a painful ten years of our life—poppa had been having an affair with another woman. And though, I’m not entirely happy for the circumstance of her disappearance.

It well, just happened.

The lady, which name I’ve never been told about by either parent. Just died of cancer—how convenient is that? I mean even for my own mother.

“Ella, honey,” called momma from the main entrance “Aren’t you coming?”

Looks like I’ve been too engrossed with the past, I must have only taken a single step. “Here, momma,” I said so as not to worry her. Everything’s somehow distinctly different. The furnishings, the glazed, cream color of walls and borders of yellow, if I didn’t know any better…it felt somehow, very Victorian. Chandeliers sparkled with or without lights, crystal orbs dangling at the ends—and the size of it, enormous; it must have cost a fortune. Like that ever was a problem with my parents. Carpets newly vacuumed and spread thinly against marble flooring. Any onlooker from the outside would be fooled, heck; I was fooled and lived here. Or used to, as a matter of fact. Whatever simplicity it had offered outside, was different inside.

I found a long wide, elongated couch and sat down. The feel of it was pure bliss, I can’t believe I neglected and traded all this.

“Ella,” called my mother, pulling me out of my reverie “There’s a lazy boy you can pull out from that sofa to rest your feet.”

“It’s alright, mom,” I try to sound affectionate “I’d like to stretch my legs somewhat.”

“So,” Marian started the ball rolling “How are you Tita?”

“Fine, iha,” momma said “God has been good these last ten years,” she turned to me and added, “Despite not having our most precious daughter here with us.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes, “I apologize for my absence” I reminded myself I was at home and had to practice a certain conduct. Not that my parents bothered to impose it the way they did as I was a child. But I still felt it. A soundless tingle I get, whenever I ought to be on my best behavior. I’ve been raised well, so I won’t falter. Especially not in our humble abode “I didn’t mean to miss Christmas last year and the year before that…”

Momma laughed as she touched her fingers to mine, “You’ve come home now, and that’s all that matters.” She smiled with watery eyes “I imagine your dad, would be happy to see you.”

That made me tense, “Is poppa home…?” I asked nervously. I smoothed the imagined creases on my white blouse.

“Ella!” momma scolded discreetly “Don’t fidget.”

After all these years, she still saw through me. Attuned to my little girl mannerisms and bottled-up feelings. I…for the longest time; have felt I failed papa. My insatiable thirst for the calling of arts led me so very far away from home. It took everything in me not to live in the United States and just make a career there. I knew I had to come home.