Ivory
"Ivory Lethridge, childhood is a privilege; not a right."
At a young age, my entire world was dramatically flipped upside down. I had lived contently as an only child with two parents. In my eyes, their love was unbreakable. My father was a husky, strong man built with a plush heart. His eyes were a deep brown and his hair was golden, just like mine. My mother was a clever woman who spent much time alone. She was very quiet, but could love just the same as my father. Her hair was straight, black, and long and her eyes were an ice blue, just like mine. They were the vines that had intertwined around a single flower.
I was their flower.
This happiness did not last long, and it ended on a typical day when my father had gone out to work. It was stormy and the rain pelted the Earth with such force that it shook my bones. I remember watching my father pull out of the driveway from my bedroom window and hearing the thunder rumbling after him in the distance. The weather called for powerful thunderstorms all day long, and even a hint of hail. Reporters advised people to stay home from work that Saturday, but my father was very loyal to his job at the construction site. If he had not been excused, he would not take a day off. My father passed on the warning and left my mother and I at home. It was his worst mistake.
Shortly after his departure, my father's car had slid off from the main road and went full force into a tree. There weren't much other details than that. He had died on impact. I was eight years old. The memory of the phone call is still vivid in my mind. The house phone rang for a second and then quickly my mother answered.I was too young to sense the anxious aura of my home. My mother's voice was quiet but I could hear it quivering. She finally broke down and the soft sobs echoed throughout the house. Gripping my blanket, I tiptoed to my mother's room.
I was too young to expect the worst.
My mother was hunched over on her bed with the phone still pressed against her ear. The lights were out and it was dark. The phone screen's glow helped me outline her shape. My mother's free hand was pressed against her forehead and her body was vigorously shaking. She kept murmuring 'no'.
"Mother?" I asked cautiously from the doorway.
My mother whirled around and cupped her hand over the phone. Her hair was frizzed and she looked older. Much older. Her gentle eyes had become glazed with anger and her face was twisted with grief.
"Get out!" She spat furiously. "Get out, just leave Ivory!"
I backed away from the door but I couldn't find the strength to move. My legs had become numb and I was frozen on the spot. My fingers twisted the end of the blanket I had dragged along. This woman could not be my mother. My mother would never do this.
"Get out!" She kept screaming, now with tears rushing down her face.
In her nightgown, she hopped off the bed and bolted over to me. Without a single word of explination, she slammed the door in my face. I stood and just stared before bursting into frightened crying of my own.
That night I went to bed sailing on a sea of tears. I was bewildered and confused. Anxiety was pulling at my heartstrings but I had no idea why. I cried for the woman that was supposed to be my mother and I cried because I missed my father. I felt helpless and all I could do was cry. I cried into the night and straight on until the sun rose in the horizon.
Early the next morning, a hand shook me awake. I turned over and felt a ray of hope that I'd open my eyes to my father, but it was not him. It would never be him again, and I began to believe that.
My mother sat on the edge of my bed. Her usually polished hair was tangled around the ends. Her beautiful eyes were bloodshot and her face had sunken in from the crying. Mascara stains lined her cheeks.
