But home wasn’t home anymore—not without my father.
He used to bring me to the city, and we’d visit our favorite ice cream shop and goof around for hours, sometimes days, during the summer. Of course, that was all before my mother died and he decided he preferred to avoid me.
I relocated permanently when my aunt and uncle kicked me out after graduation. I spent the first half of my summer pretending to wait for my first semester of college. That lasted until my aunt walked in on me stepping out of the shower and caught a front row view of the invasion in my belly.
I was thrown out on my ass that very day, and the next thirteen months became a constant battle for survival.
I wanted to hate my aunt and uncle more than I already did, but that would mean denying my pregnancy hadn’t been my fault.
And Aaron’s.
When I tried to come clean about what resulted after that night, he pretended we were strangers. Aaron’s denial was the final turning point down a path different from the one my father paved for me. Daddy’s dream that I’d go to college died by my hands. My aunt and uncle helped long before I’d gotten pregnant. The money my father hid from my aunt and uncle had only lasted me a year before it ran dry. While my father entrusted his brother to me because he had no choice, he still took measures to protect me from them. When I was kicked out, I used the funds he set aside to get by. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough. Turns out, my aunt and uncle’s hospitality came with a hefty price tag, which cut into the money he was able to leave me.
I stretched every penny and saved, but none of it mattered in the end.
Daddy had been sentenced to twenty-five years in maximum security. His sentence killed our hope of being reunited sooner than later. I remember watching my father when the verdict was delivered and later when he was sentenced. He never reacted. He sat there unmoving and unsurprised.
He’d lied to me.
He knew he wasn’t going to get off. He played me to lessen the pain only to amplify it the day he was taken away in cuffs for the final time.
Our first and only visit occurred two and a half years ago. That was when he forbade me to come back.
“I don’t want you to come back. Not for me.”
“Why wouldn’t I come see you? You’re my dad. You’re all I have.”
“You have so much time left. I don’t. I want you to use your time to make something better. This is it for me. Your future is the only thing I can make right. And that means I can’t be a part of it anymore.”
I can still feel the heat from the tears I shed over him, the hurt in my heart, and the emptiness I was left with when he turned his back on me for the last time.
After five minutes of struggling through the June heat, I reached the quarter-mile mark of my journey…the bus stop. Behind me, I could hear the rumble from the exhausted bus engine approach. My feet stopped moving, and I watched it roll to a stop. The hiss of the brakes engaging and then the door swinging open, greeted me.
Fuck it.
Weakly, I ascended the few steps and reached inside my bag to pay. My tattered wallet was already open and staring back at me was an empty pocket.
The driver became impatient and grumbled, “It’s two bucks to ride, miss.”
I nodded.
Embarrassed and worn, I wordlessly stepped down. Bus rides were a luxury best reserved for when time wasn’t on my side. I figured we’d eat more often if I didn’t make city transportation another monthly reason to struggle.
Yesterday, when I was in danger of missing my shift, I had no choice but to catch the bus.
And so went the only two bucks I had to spare. I didn’t always end a shift with a pocket full of cash. Yesterday’s tips had been spent on groceries and supplies for the week and the two measly bucks I had before my shift was spent to save a job I no longer had.
If today had gone as planned, there would have been no sun, and I wouldn’t have needed to be saved by a bus. I would have walked through a dangerous city at night with a pocket full of cash I made from tips, and everything would have been okay.
But today wasn’t a day for plans.
I survived the rest of the trek to the subsidized apartment building I called home. My clothes stuck to my skin as I entered the run down building. As much as I dreaded facing the music, I wanted out of them more.
After I had been evicted from the decent apartment I rented while pregnant, I was forced to lower my living standards. The payments became too hard to make each month, and the manager was no longer willing to offer extensions without him getting blown on occasion. After I had refused him, the smell of piss stained hallways and the drug addicts that decorated them became my new reality.
I held my breath and waded through the living dead looking for their next hit and made my way to the stairs.