Love of a Rockstar

Chapter One, Love of a Rockstar

I PICKED THE toys up off the floor with a small sigh. It always seemed like a never-ending mess in my house and no matter what I did, the chaos stayed that way. It wasn’t my daughter’s fault; I was the one who overindulged her.

A small part of me hoped the dollies and the pink tea set with the matching saucers would deter her from noticing the lack of a father figure in her life, which was ridiculous. Even at four, she had a keen sense of her surroundings. One morning she asked if the woman sneaking out of Mr. Avery’s house across the street was his wife. To say I didn’t know how to answer her question would be putting it mildly. My words became fumbled; Nil lost interest and walked away. Her father would have stayed calm and collected. He was the yin to my yang, always balancing me out.

Until he left us.

I snatched up a sippy cup from the floor. “Stupid asshole,” I muttered to myself. “Leaving me to deal with this mess all alone.”

“Mommy?”

My daughter’s voice, thick with sleep, made me glance over. She stood in the doorway, clothed in her pajamas, her big blue eyes studying me. I gave birth to Nil as a scared twenty year old, but as soon as the nurse placed her in my arms, a woman emerged from within me. One month before I was to give birth, her father got a life changing opportunity to go on tour, and ran off to pursue his dreams of becoming a rock star. My heart shattered into a million pieces when he left, and I had no idea how I would manage single motherhood. What kept me going was the tiny imprint of a foot beneath my skin on my stomach during my ninth month of pregnancy. That was why I named her Nil, light of the sun.

“What’s an asshole?” she asked.

Grimacing, I picked her up onto my hip. “A bad word sweetie, not one you want to use.”

“But you said it.”

“True, but only grown-ups can,” I explained.

She titled her head to the side. “So when I’m Sissy’s age, I can say it?”

Sissy, Nil’s cousin, was five years older than her. If she thought eight years old was a grown-up, I must be ancient to my daughter.

“We’ll see,” I said.

As we crossed the short distance to her bedroom, I prayed she’d forget this conversation. The last thing I needed was for my daughter to start cursing. I plopped Nil down onto her bed and tugged off her shirt. My grandmother would be here soon to babysit so I could go to work.

“Which outfit?” I asked my daughter.

I held up a pink sparkly dress and a jumper decorated with unicorns. My heart burst with love as her rosebud lips pursed. When I was her age, fashion was also my one true obsession.

She pointed her chubby finger to the dress. “That one.”

Her choice didn’t surprise me. Anything with pink and sparkles always won.

Nil made a grabbing motion with her hands. “Let me do it.”

I handed it over and she proudly pulled the dress over her head. She still had her PJ pants on which made the outfit a mishmash.

“Sweetie, a dress isn’t a dress if you’re wearing pajama bottoms underneath.”

Nil’s face hardened into a mask of determination. “I like it.”

For all I cared, she could wear whatever she wanted, but since my grandmother was coming over, I wanted Nil to appear presentable. When the news of my pregnancy broke, my family wasn’t happy. My parents lived on the upper echelon of society with an image to protect. Pregnancy out of wedlock became an embarrassment.