It's amazing how easily I can lose myself in a good book. When a story is written well enough, I can open a book and disappear from the present; I can go anywhere I want. I think that's why I've always enjoyed reading, the reason why I always requested extra summer reading assignments, or would walk a mile one way to the library in the middle of winter. The ability to open a novel and be somewhere other than my reality, it was all I wanted.
My mother always made sure that I knew I wasn't planned, that her becoming pregnant and having me was an accident. She never said with her exact words that she wished she didn't have me, but it was obvious in the way she treated me. She wasn't a bad mom, but she wasn't a good mom.
I don't remember there ever being a time when I felt like my mom was someone I could go to when I needed help. Yes, she'd sign off on school permission slips, she was always excited for a time when I would be away from the house, but I could never go to her for anything personal. By the time I got my license and a job at sixteen, we were, in almost every definition, roommates. We lived parallel to one another, our lives brushing past just enough, but never too much, never enough that she'd ever have to play the role of mother.
My dad was in and out of my life until I turned fourteen, when he officially left my mom to tour with another one of the bands he'd joined. From what I know, my parents had been hippies, traveling out west with nothing but their van, a guitar, and however much weed the money from their gigs could provide. They and their friends hadn't made it big, not yet anyway, and they probably never would have. But then they got pregnant with me, and they found out too late to get an abortion.
My parents argued in front of me enough for me to know they blamed me for their loss of freedom. My mom had to take care of me, and my dad didn't love her enough to give up the life he wanted for himself. The only thing they seemed to agree on after I was born was my name, an homage to a lover of peace and writer of meaningful music. I was born to be a Beatles fan.
That's why, when my third grade teacher Ms. Torres introduced me to the Harry Potter series, I clung to it. I read the entire novel, which was well-above my grade level, in an entire weekend. All I wanted was more, anything with an adventure, anything that could take me away from my parents who resented me for existing. Ms. Torres not only planted the seed for my love of reading, she watered it and watched it grow into something beautiful.
I wasn't cared about at home, but I knew that when I stepped into her classroom, there was at least one person who cared about me. She is the reason why I wanted to become a teacher, because if I can impact even one child's life the way she did mine, then maybe my life could actually mean something.
The habits I developed back then to escape my situation are ones I still cling to now. Aaron hasn't spoken to me all morning, not since I came home from the police station late, which meant that dinner was on late. By the time I'd walked into our home a little after six, he already had an empty can of beer on the coffee table, and was in the process of opening another.
My heart had already been racing at the thought of being late, because Aaron likes everything to be on schedule. He likes to wake up at seven to a hot cup of coffee, go on a run at seven fifteen, and be showered and in the office by nine. He thrives on routine and the expected, so I knew that my being late would throw him off. That's exactly what I didn't want to happen.
"I'm so sorry, things went behind at school today, then I had to go to the station for finger printing. I meant to text that I was on my way home, but I had some complications with paying for the background check." I didn't know that the police station would only take cash. I mean, what place only accepts cash nowadays? I sifted through my wallet and ended up being a dollar short.
