You’re just like your father
“You’re just like your father”. The first time she’d heard that, was from her mother, who said it lovingly as she came inside with her dad, nose bright red, hands cold and shivering. They had been outside, enjoying the snow on Christmas. Her mother had called the both of them in a long time ago, saying they were too cold and that they needed to warm up. Both of them had been too stubborn to admit it until her father had finally taken her inside, seeing that she was constantly shivering. She didn’t mind it though; she’d had fun and that was all that mattered to the three year old girl. The next time she heard it, was from her grandparents. She’d been staying with them for two days now because her parents were busy doing something, she wasn’t sure what. They didn’t have girl toys, only the lego her father used to play with. She didn’t mind; she set to work on a large house, and they took pictures of her building with her tongue out. “You’re just like your father” her grandmother told her, proceeding to call her parents to tell them all about it. “He was building houses too,” her grandfather informed her. All she did was smile and continue building. Her neighbours told her the same thing when she was staying there once. Her parents were busy again, she wasn’t sure with what. They were never home at the same time, and if they were, they would never cuddle with her like they used to. Instead, she could hear their voices coming from the hallway, and they never sounded happy again. Now she was staying with her neigbours and the six year old girl tried her best to ignore the sad looks they gave her. It was time to go to bed, but her hair was all messed up after spending a long day in the garden. Her neighbour was brushing it, telling her it was just like her father’s; black, curly and always messy. She smiled. She loved her father. Her mother told it her once more. She hadn’t seen her father for a few days; he always seemed to be away. Her mother wasn’t as happy anymore, and wouldn’t look at her drawings. She was stubborn, kept pushing. Her mother sighed, taking one quick look before looking at the bottle in front of her again. “You’re just like your father. You won’t take no for an answer”. It wasn’t as lovingly as the first time, but it wasn’t mad either, not yet. The next time she heard it was when she was fourteen. She hadn’t seen her father in years and she’d realized that he wasn’t the great father she thought him to be. She lived with her mother now, for seven years already. Her father had left them a long time ago, and according to her mother, he wouldn’t visit again. The last time she’d seen him, he told her she wasn’t his daughter anymore. That had hurt, but her mother explained everything that happened. He was an alcoholic, abusive and violent. He’d been cheating on her mother for a long time, even had a daughter with that women. She supposed that was his daughter now. She had always ignored the times when he wasn’t happy, but now she knew that had been the foolishness of a child. And perhaps, the will to see the good in everything. She’d grown up, made friends. Friends who she wanted to have fun with. So one evening, when her mom wasn’t home and had strictly told her to stay in, she broke that rule and went over to a friend. Her mom was never home before half past nine, so when she returned home at nine she thought she’d be fine. Except that her mom had been home early and was furious. After she shouted a long time, she sat down on a chair. “You’re just like your father.” The girl thought back to the first time she’d heard it from her mother. Then it had been a compliment. Now it was an insult. It was a thought that always came back to her whenever her mom used that phrase, and she used it often enough when she was angry. “You’re just like your father.” Once, it had been a good thing. Now it was the worst.
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February 2017
About meWelcome to my blog! This is where I post my stories, occasionally accompanied by personal thoughts. I always post short stories, as I keep the longer ones for myself. My stories are often based on songs. I listen to music a lot (mostly pop punk / punk rock), and often get inspired by melodies, lyrics, or music videos. |