More Than Memories

Chapter 2

WHITNEY LANE

"Mom!"

"MOM," my oldest daughter shouts.

I close my eyes for a needed reprieve. It's going to be one of those days. I can feel it. I can feel it all the way down to my bones.

I breathe in deep then exhale on a rush, blowing the air out of my mouth as I wish it would take away the hardship of being a parent with it. If only for just a little while. It shouldn't be this hard . . .

"Hello," she continues, only this time her voice is back to a normal volume. But I can hear the irritation even without looking at her. Always so irritated.

What do I do? How do I fix this?

Turning away from the counter, I take in my daughter's appearance. She's standing at the entrance to our designer kitchen—that I hate—with her arms crossed over her chest. Her long, dark, almost black hair camouflages her anger. Almost. The eyes show all though. Her eyes are both stunningly beautiful and haunting at the same time. They always have been from the moment the dark pigment shed, and her real color sparkled to life. I remember that moment like it happened yesterday. A strange feeling had pierced my chest, and for a split second, I felt pain, longing even. I had thought I was about to have a heart attack. I think it must have been new-mom emotions. I had them often when she was a baby.

Today she's dressed in a red and white, checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It's unbuttoned over a white tank top with dark blue jeans tucked into her favorite pair of cowboy boots. Why on earth she's wearing warm clothes this time of year is beyond me. It may be early fall, but it still feels a lot like summer in Tennessee though.

"If you have something to say to me then you need to do so without an attitude, young lady."

On the one hand, I feel as though I shouldn't say things like that to her, it only fuels the fire between us. On the other, I can't sit here and let her speak to me the way she sometimes does.

She pops off at the slightest thing she doesn't like or at something that doesn't go her way. It's her outlet I guess. And maybe I envy that occasionally. I wish I had an outlet for all the things bubbling inside my belly.

Her stare darkens. She hates it when I use pet names. Anything other than her name, or Ev for short, seems to tick her off these days. And people say the terrible twos are bad. I disagree. She was sweet as pie at two.

Slowly the anger fades, being replaced with a sadness that catches me off guard.

"What's wrong?" My voice turns to motherly concern for my little girl. It doesn't seem that long ago that she was in diapers crawling around and climbing into my lap just to be close to me, or wrapping her fist around my hair as if it were her safety blanket. I miss those days.

"You promised." Her tone is an accusation.

Confused, my eyebrows turn inward as I asked, "I promised what?"

"If I got all A's on my report card, I'd be able to take guitar lessons after school. Why can't I?" she whines.

I sigh, shaking my head, remembering the exact conversation at the start of her third-grade school year this past August.

"What I said was, 'I would convince your dad to allow it.'" I knew it wouldn't be an easy feat. Blake, for whatever reason, hates music and is adamant he doesn't want anything to distract our children from their education. He and I disagree wholeheartedly on this. We disagree—a lot. Music is often a lifesaver for my sanity, so I understand our child's need for it. It is often times an outlet—an outlet I feel she needs. I know I do. "Did you say something about it to your father already?" I cringe at the tone of my voice. I didn't mean for it to come out the way it sounded. Harsh. Accusing.