UNCONDITIONALLY YOURS

Everything. // 15

When I was young, I was happy. Like any ordinary little girl, I went to school, I played, I spent time with my mother and so on. My mother was an amazing woman. She had such an ability to love and care and show it perfectly. An ability I had never seen quite the same from anyone else. She was Italian, and some of my best memories were from her teaching me her language. I loved how important it was to her, she always wanted to take me to Italy, but my father never let her. One day, my mother begged enough and my father finally agreed that we could go to Italy, but we were too late. She fell ill and she passed away, but I still looked up to her in every way, hopeful that one day I could be half of what she was. I lost her when I was twelve. She had developed cancer around a year earlier. The worst thing is that she had been on her path for recovery, we all thought she was going to get better. But one day, I came home from school and she was more ill than ever. She died a week later. My mother did not deserve to die, and I mourned her for years. I never understood how someone so strong could be taken down by an illness, I really thought she could get through it. I hated myself for her death. As illogical as it may have been, I thought it was my fault. I was simply convinced there was no way that there was nothing anyone could have done, my mother's death could not have been inevitable.

As established already, I hated my father. Believe it or not, it took more than just his ignorance of me that made me despise him so strongly. It was not just little things. There were huge moments that told he how much of a cruel being he was. When my mother was still alive, I was not at all close with my father. I barely saw him, as I had my mother to take care of me and he was usually working. He had never been a father figure, in fact, before my mother died I barely knew him. I only wondered my beautiful and kind mother would marry a man who did not seem to love her. The first time I saw my dad after my mother's death ensured me that we would not get on and the years that proceeded me would not be pleasant. I was disgraced to see he already had another woman with him. One day after my mother and his wife's death. A mere day. The woman was younger than my mother, she was pretty but she did not have half the natural gorgeousness my mother had. And she was nothing like my mother. That woman was my step mother.

My mother hated any frame of publicity from my father. Unfortunately, she was quite liked by the media but she always tried her best to avoid it. Even though everyone knew her as my father's wife and the mother of his child, over the years the memories of her seemed to fade and people began to believe my step mother was my real mother. My step mother was always an obvious gold digger. My father was not stupid, he must have known this but he wanted a wife that could be silenced with money. My father was never capable of love. To be honest, I did not know where is all went wrong with him but was I did know was all her cared for was himself, money, power, and respect.

When I was in my early teens, I had always gripped onto the hope that my father could have a shred of the love mother did for me. I didn't know if I just wanted that thought or what, but it certainly was not true. The first time I knew for sure that he not only did not love me in the slightest, but that he did not even care about my life was when I was fifteen. It was early evening, I was in my room doing homework. I felt a sudden surge of heat on my back. I spun around. The house was on fire. The doorway was entirely enveloped in flames. My windows only opened a small amount because my father would not allow me to escape. I was helpless. Instead of trying to thing logically, I burst into tears. I was so scared, I really thought it was the end. Then something happened that I could not have expected, even as the naïve girl I was. Through the flames, I saw my father running into the house. My heart leapt, I was the only one left in the house and he was coming back for me. However, I watched in dismay as my father ran past my room, ignoring my presence. I yelled out to him, and I waited for him to return. I did not know what he was doing, but I was convinced he was helping me.