A Long Time Coming

Chapter One

        When life gives you lemons you're supposed to make lemonade right? Well, what if those 

lemons are not lemons, and instead they are rocks. Are you supposed to find a way to make the rocks

drinkable, or are you supposed to rightfully complain about the shitty rocks you were given, and

demand lemons so instead you can make fucking lemonade? Me, I've always been given rocks

for some reason. I never quite understood the reasoning behind this. Perhaps I was born under a

ladder, or maybe with a black cat in my lap. Who knows and who cares?

       My mother was a beautiful woman, love and light really. Just all of the beautiful things in the 

universe embodied into one bright shining beam. I used to watch her and admire her beauty. I 

would sit on the bed and watch her apply her makeup. I had gotten used to her taking hours to 

get ready while daddy would stomp around the house complaining, " WOMAN!" I loved every 

second of it in actuality. To me it seemed as if his love for her was disguised as frustration. She'd

 sit there and first apply a primer, and then apply foundation. At the time I didn't realize it was a 

primer and I assumed she was just putting lotion on her face.

         " Mommy, why are you putting lotion on your face?"

She'd let out a slight chuckle.

" Honey it's not lotion, it's primer!, Do you wanna try some?"

I of course would shake my head no, and she would run over to me, scoop me up, and rub

it on my face anyway. We'd laugh and laugh, until daddy would stomp back in and demand she 

"Hurry the fuck up woman , I'm hungry!" 

           Mother would then hurry back over to apply multiple 

coats of mascara and eyeliner and shoo me towards her so we could get a move on.

I loved my daddy. I just could never be sure if he actually loved me back. There were

times when he would show me he loved me by buying me candy or stopping by McDonald's after

 school. But there were other times when he would act as if my mere presence disgusted him. I 

came home one day crying about something that happened at school. I had to have been only 5 

or 6 years old. I got into the car expecting a warm embrace and maybe a hug, or two.

           " What are you crying for?!" Here I was snotting, and my daddy was looking at me like I 

pissed in his cereal. The one thing that stood out to me in that moment were his eyes. They were 

bloodshot. It looked as if Satan himself had jumped into him.

          " I said what the fuck are you crying for god dammit!"

I couldn't open my mouth to speak. Not only were my feelings hurt, but now I was frightened.

I began stuttering and babbling trying to come up with an explanation. My young mind couldn't

 understand what it was that I had done wrong. I just simply wanted a hug and forehead kiss.

         " Shut your crybaby ass the fuck up!" I immediately stopped sobbing and waited for him to 

start driving home.

           My mother said I entered into this world screaming and crying. Her little crybaby is what

she used to call me. Said I wouldn't stop screaming no matter how much she prayed and prayed.

 She'd pick me up and I'd cry. She'd give me her titty and I would cry. She'd leave me alone and I

 would cry nonstop. When I entered elementary school, my classmates would call me crybaby

 too. To my defense, I felt I was justified in my crying. I was not a happy child. This wasn't due to 

my mother not trying to make me happy, but more to my circumstances. Around 6 years old is 

when daddy started to change. He would go days without coming home, and this would cause

 my mother to completely freak out. She'd spend hours on the couch, on the phone with 

whoever would listen, switching between anger and sadness. I'd hde in the hallway, stealing

 glances at her.

          " Christy, I just can't take this anymore!, He keeps leaving me, and he's just plain mean and 

evil!"  Then she'd stop talking and nod her head, periodically interrupting the person on the line to 

jump to daddys defense.

" No, Chrissy, he is not cheating! Stop saying that!"

I'd hear words I didn't understand, and I'd rush to go look them up in my children's dictionary 

that the school provided.

Cheat: a person who acts in a dishonest way in order to gain something.

What had daddy lied about?

           By the time I had turned 8, Daddy's disappearances became a ritual. My mother was no

longer a complete and total wreck about them. She simply understood that Daddy would come 

home whenever he pleased. Some nights she'd make a fancy dinner, get dressed up, force me to 

shower as soon as I got inside from school or playing or whatever it was that I was doing, and set

 the table for him. There would be candles and incense. I almost felt out of place sitting there 

waiting for Daddy. Part of me knew he wouldn't come,and the other part of me hoped to see him

 come through the door. There was one night he did actually show up.

         " Come help me set this table!"

I rushed to put on my clothes and began setting the plates.

"Now when your Daddy gets here, I want you to be on your best behavior. We don't want to piss 

him off."

'Yes ma'am."

        Mother had made pot roast, a favorite of mine, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I was drooling, 

staring at all of the food on the table.

          "Stop looking and go wash your hands! You know your daddy doesn't like for you to eat with 

dirty hands."

"Yes ma'am." I ran to wash my hands, but the only thing that I could think was why was my 

mother so excited. Daddy wasn't coming home, he never did.