For the Love of a Daughter

I was too young.

I was too young to understand why my parents always fought. The first fight I remember was when I was four years old. I heard screaming from my bedroom, so I slid out of bed and went toward the voices. I stood outside the kitchen, hidden, as I listened to my mother and father argue.

“Well maybe if you put that bottle down for once!” my mother screamed.

“I need it to keep me sane!” my father shouted right back, “What with living with you!”

“Is there something wrong with being with me?!” my mother shrieked, enraged, “What have I ever done wrong to you?!”

“Constantly telling me to stop drinking!”

“You have a problem!”

“Don’t you dare say I have a problem! My only problem is you!”

“And you’re so innocent?! We all have our issues! You better realize yours!”

“I know where my issues lie! What about you?! Have you seen what a pain in the you are?!”

“Well, I’m sorry to be such a pain in the then! I’m sorry for not being the perfect housewife when I need to work two jobs to support your sorry !”

“I can support myself!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

I clasped my hands together and brought them to my chest as I felt tears escape my eyes. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like hearing them yell like this. I didn’t like the mean things they were saying to each other. I wanted it all to stop.

I walked back to my room, still hearing the argument. I didn’t even know what it was about, I was too young.

A year later, when my mother suddenly disappeared, I still didn’t understand. She gave me a hug and kiss goodbye right before sending me into my kindergarten class, and then left for work. Only, when it was time for her to pick me up, she never came. Instead, three hours later, my kindergarten teacher walked home with me. She dropped me off outside my home, and I went inside to find my father, sitting at the kitchen table, reading a letter.

“Daddy,” I said, carefully approaching him. When he didn’t answer, I decided to ask my question, “Where is Mommy?”

His head slowly turned to me. He stared at me and asked, “What?”

For some reason, I felt scared. I couldn’t recognize the empty stare in his eyes, nor the slight curling of his upper lip. But, despite this feeling that I can only now explain, I answered, “Mommy didn’t pick me up at school today. Mr. Han had to walk me home. Where is she? Is she ok?”

Suddenly, his hand slammed down on the table as he stood up. I jumped at the loud sound it made and backed up two steps.

“She’s gone!” he shouted, wobbling as he walked to the kitchen counter. I didn’t see it at the time, but now I can recall the bottle on the table where he was sitting, “Your mother left!”

“Where did she go?” I stupidly asked. My father turned around and walked toward me, and when he finally reached me, I barely had enough time to register the hand that hit my cheek.

“She left! Forever!” he shouted, slurring his words, “Your ‘mommy’ left us cold! Now I’m going to have to pay for everything! I’m going to have to pay for you, brat!” My cheek stung from the slap, and my eyes filled with tears that I couldn’t stop from overflowing. I stared up at my father, feeling my heart break to pieces.

“Daddy…”

“Go to your room!” he shouted, drunkenly pointing at the door, “Go now! I don’t want to see your face!” He turned around and slumped back into the chair at the kitchen table. He rested his elbows on the table and placed his face in his hands. I turned to leave the kitchen just as I heard him mumble.

“You look too much like her,” he slurred, quietly. I was just barely able to make out those words. I decided not to question him further, for fear of another slap on the cheek, and ran to my bedroom, closing the door tightly and lying on my bed. It was then that I was able to process my father’s words.

“She left! Forever!” My mother was gone – she left us. Why did she leave? Was it my fault? Did I do something wrong? I didn’t understand.

I was too young.

As the years passed, I tried to help my father. He never cared for me – but I cared for him, because I remembered the family trips we took where he would carry me onto the boat on the lake and point out the pretty trees and splash me with water. I remember his kind laughter and I remember his kind heart. But, seeing him without my mother, he was not the same father I remembered.

“Um, Dad,” I said, timidly. I decided to approach him one day when I was ten years old after he did not show up for parent’s day at my school.

“What do you want?” he slurred, taking another sip of his wine. I gulped and took a deep breath.

“I just…I wanted to talk to you,” I finally said, walking further into the room.

“Well, talk then!”

Not knowing where to start, I looked around the room as a distraction. It wasn’t until I saw the wine bottle in his hand and watched him take another drink of it that I felt all of my rage direct itself toward the unhealthy drink. I felt like grabbing the bottle and smashing it against the wall, but I knew that doing that would only result in a slap across the face and a large mess to clean up. Instead, I spoke the first words that came to my mind.

“Put the bottle down,” I said, not even hesitating. I looked from the bottle to my father’s eyes and saw them widen ever so slightly.

“What?” he asked, shocked. I glanced back at the bottle in his hand – a hand which had tightened around that beloved drink.

“Please,” I said, feeling close to tears as I decided, for once, to speak from my heart, “Please, put the bottle down.”

He suddenly stood up and towered over me, for he was a rather large man who had only grown larger the past five years without my mother around. “And why should I?! Huh?!”

I looked up into his eyes, unable to control the tears that now dripped down my cheeks, “Please, Daddy. Put the bottle down. Put the drink down for me. Do it for your daughter, who loves you so much and just wants you to be happy and-” I was cut off by a slap across the face.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing for you!” he drunkenly shouted, “I do enough for you already! Why should I do anything more?!”

I felt a sob rising in my throat as I desperately choked out, “Please…”

Another slap, and I felt as if my world was crumbling. I looked at his face once before retreating to my room. Only now, I realize that I was not looking at my father that night or any other night after that. I was not looking at the man who held me as we floated across the lake one summer, or the man who kissed my head and stayed with me for the night when a nightmare woke me up. That kind-hearted man was gone, and the man in front of me was hopeless. He had no love for me – he had no love for his only child, his only daughter. But, I could not understand this back then.

I was too young.

Here we go! The first chapter! I was thinking of naming each chapter after a song that kind of represents the chapter. While I was writing this, the song by Demi Lovato (the chapter title is hyperlinked to the song) came on, and I immediately saw the relation between the chapter and the meaning of the song. So, I'm going to try to find a song for each chapter that I write and name the chapter after it. I'll include the song at the begining of the chapter (just click on the chapter title which will be hyperlinked) as well as next to the chapter in the Table of Contents in the Foreword. The song language could be English, Korean, Chinese, Japanese, maybe even French (though I highly doubt that last language since I only know three French songs O_o)! Anyway, the point is, since this entire story is inspired by a song, I want to include songs in the chapters too! Let me know if you like the idea or absolutely hate it or whatever. And I hope you like this chapter! Thanks for reading, commenting, and subscribing! I really appreciate it~ ^_^