I wake up to the presence of a therapist. Let me rephrase that. A nagging wanna-be therapist also referred to as my stepmom. Gone are the days of wicked stepmothers who would take being poor and hagged over listening about your life. Nope, now we have these things called bonding sessions. Also referred to as torture.
"I heard your mother couldn't make it to the banquet yesterday. If you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen. You know I would have come with you but I guess if it were me, I'd want to come with my real mother, too."
That's a nice way of putting it. When my dad had suggested Chelsea come instead of my real mother I had freaked. And screamed things I'm not going to mention. A lot of them.
"Why do you care?"
Her smile becomes tight and I think, Gotcha! But really, why does she care?
"Hillary, I'm just trying to help. I should probably...I'm trying!" She runs out of the room and I shrug. She should keep her epic breakdowns to herself. Gosh, manners much?
Last night comes flooding back to me. My mom left me a journal.
A journal.
To write down my promises. So I can keep them. Unlike her, I keep my promises. Looking at the book upsets me so I grab it, wishing it would tear apart in my hands. Instead, I settle for the next best thing.
I toss the book of promises out the window.
How symbolic.
_________________________
I walk down the stairs slowly, fearing what's ahead. My dad will face me with a disappointed glare and inside, I'll blame it on my mom.
Like I always do.
Unfortunately, my mom can't take the rap for everything. Even though she unknowingly tries.
"Good morning everyone!" I smile cheerily and even add my best princess wave. How could you stay mad at this face?
Apparently, my dad.
He doesn't say anything, just focuses on his cereal.
I deflate a little, wondering why it's so important I bond with Chelsea. She's staying, no matter how much I like or dislike it.
"Dad, what's the big deal? I just needed to be alone," I reason, even though I want to yell at him.
Chelsea shouldn't be able to act like my mother, if even my own mother doesn't! She shouldn't pretend like she cares when I know the illusion will crack sooner or later.
The illusion always cracks. And I always get hit by the pieces.
Every. Single. Time.
"It's fine," my dad mutters, before leaving the room.
No, it's not fine. That much is obvious.
I'm always the obstacle. The roadblock in the path to success, happiness, belts that match your socks, and delectable cheeses. I'm the downfall, the bad guy, all of the above.
Which can I say, is highly untrue because when I'm not sulking about my life, I do try to help others experience the world of delectable cheeses.
Because I'm nice like that.
I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if I want to fix this. I do know no one else will try to fix this.
Everyone skirts around the most important topics and makes a big deal about the least.
Because it's easy.
There's less broken hearts and broken bonds.
Because not doing it, means you didn't do it wrong.
No one realizes it means you didn't do it right either.
One of the things I like about my mom is she talks. Sure, she talks lies, but they're lies that give you hope. The lies you want to hear.
And isn't that better than hearing absolutely nothing?
YOU ARE READING
The Promises I'll Keep
Teen Fiction"I promise things will get better." People promise the impossible. "I promise you." And they give you hope. Why? How hard is it to keep a promise? It's hard. So infinitely hard that I've realized that maybe some promises can't be kept. Maybe som...
