My Father Is Who?!: An E.P. Fan Fiction.

Chapter One: A House That Has Everything.

I rolled over in my bed, long blonde hair flew in every direction. What was the time? Any minute now, my loud mouth mother would parade into my room with a thick stream of white light behind her, calling me out of my deep slumber.

"Get up sleepy head!" I was right. She was calling me now. "Get up and greet the day! Your daddy is in the Field. Says he could use your help plowing." She scurried to the curtains and pushed them aside. The light filtered in chasing the darkness out. I longed for it to come back but mother would never let that happen.

"Mom, it's spring break. I need to sleep in. I'm a growing girl!" I hissed. I knew it was pointless to state my case but it was worth a try. It was always worth a try in case she gave into my strained pleading. I knew that would never happen.

"Dahlia Marie, you get your ass out of bed and geton that tractor!" She growled at me before turning and stomping out the door, "Ten minutes!" She called over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes, like I always did and forced myself from the bed. Why was it always me that dad made work the land?

I dug through the dirty clothes hamper until I found a pair of black sweat pants and a red t-shirt. They would do. I slid them onto my narrow body and headed down the stairs before my mother had more time to through threats my way.

"Going out to the yard now!"

"Good girl!" She responded.

The house smelled of burnt bacon. I would never understand why my father ate his breakfast the way he did. Always burnt. My sister loved it too. The thought of it repulsed me and caused me to shy away from meal time in my house. My father was OCD about the way he ate, what he ate and what time he ate it.

I swear, if I were my mother, I'd go completely insane and try to rip the mans' eyeballs out. Don't get me wrong -- I love my daddy but he was so old, and weird. I never understood why my mother loved my father. He was 77 years old while she was dangling on the edge of her late 30's.

She told me she would love him until the day she died. It was true love. She knew it. We all did.

"Daddy, mommy woke me up and sent me out here to help you plow." I called to him. He looked up from his work and cupped a fragile hand over his eyes.

"Oh good, I needed some help. Come over here and start putting these hay bales on the truck." He smiled, he had perfect teeth -- unlike me. There was a gap between my two front teeth. I envied him.

"Daddy I've been meaning to ask you something." I called over my shoulder as I picked up one hay bale at a time and tossed them over my shoulder, into my fathers pickup truck.

"Ask away." He responded. His accent was thick, a soft southern draw. I was told when he was little that he had come from down south but no one ever told me anymore then that. Something in me needed to know more.

"Daddy, could you tell me a little about our family? I never hear you talk about them. I need to do a family tree for school and I need to know at least a little about them." I spoke gingerly toward my father.

He straightened up and wiped his brow with his forearm. It seemed like he had been waiting on this question. "I was adopted and my adopted parents died when I was about your age." He said, his blueeyes linking with mine. "Now drop it."

I had no reason to doubt him but, still, I felt the need to press the issue. "What were their names?" I questioned, turning to face him.

"Don't worry about it!" He hissed at me through clenched teeth before turning on the balls of his feet to look me over, "Stop worrying about it Dahlia." He said calmly. His expression was one of pain.