"Anaji! I already learned this three years ago! Shouldn't I be learning something else?" I exclaimed exasperated.
"Esperanza, quit interrupting me. This stuff is important to your education! Anyway we're reviewing for the state test you still have to take. This is what kids your age are supposed to be learning in school." She stated professionally.
"But like I said I already learned this years ago! By public school standards I would be a senior. In AP classes. Learning this again is ridiculous!" I flopped on the couch unceremoniously.
"Stop whining Ms. Senior-in-AP-classes. The state requires me to teach you this. As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, because the Third Estate was being treated unfairly by the First and Second Estate, France..."
I looked out the window from the second floor of our three story home, feeling a twinge of guilt for tuning Anaji out. At a glance, at least from this window, all you saw was a tree, its leaves transforming from the vibrant green of summer to the warm yellows and fiery oranges that signal the beginning of fall. My dad is always saying how one day he's going to cut down that tree because 'past all the branches, the view is breath taking'. But him and I both know that it will stay a passing comment. Something that is just said because following through with the words would be too painful.
I remember when my mom planted that tree. It was a time when everything was simple and beautiful. When life was there and all you had to do was live. All you had to do was smile. Smile, and everything would be perfect.
I was a happy six year old and mom would have been twenty-seven, I think. I remember the sun was warm on our skin and would have been unbearable if it weren't for the slight breeze that helped cool it. She had come home with an excited grin on her face and announced that we were going to plant a tree. Just like that. We were going to plant a tree. She was a spontaneous, care-free, loving woman with a bright smile and giving heart. My mom was perfect. It would hurt too much to chop that tree down. It would hurt both of us. My dad and I.
My eyes drifted and focused on the picture on the window sill. It was a family photo taken that same day. My dad was on the right with his briefcase and suit still on. He was a lawyer at the time, still is, and a verygood one at that. I was in the middle with one front tooth missing and dirt smudged on my cheeks. Then there was my mom on the left. She also had dirt smudges on her but she was still breath taking. She had long wavy dark brown hair with an olive complexion. Long, dark eyelashes framed her big, dark brown eyes. My dad called her Bambi because her eyes were so big. I felt my eyes start to water as I looked at her because no matter what happens, I will never truly be able to remember her like that. Smiling, warm, alive.
The therapists call it survivor's guilt. The fact that she died in front of me probably plays a big role in that. I was eight. They also say I was traumatized. I agree to an extent. After what happened, I cannot stomach the sight of a gun or blood. I still visit the place where we were headed that day; I actually work there. So yeah, to an extent I was traumatized. So was my dad but he refuses to admit it. After that day, I never once attended public or private school again. Not for lack of trying, oh no. My dad didn't feel I would be safe enough outside of our home after mom died.
"I won't risk losing you, too." was what he said.
So since the time I was eight years old my dad has equipped the house with everything I ever needed or wanted. I have an in-home movie theatre, complete with a popcorn machine, surround sound, really comfy chairs, and Netflix. I have an in-home gym, sauna, and pool. If I want a haircut, the stylist comes to my house. The only time I will actually leave the house is to go to work and that is only because my dad believes in a good work ethic. I'm sure a lot of people would think I was ungrateful for all the things my dad has given me and that is fine, that is their opinion, but sometimes I feel as though my "home" is actually a fancy prison. I would never tell my dad that because I know he means well, but, yeah.
