Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Wanted her to feel the way I did on a daily basis.

Damaged.

Shabby.

In need of fixing.

I could’ve denied it, but I’d never lied to my papa before, and I sure wasn’t about to start now.

“Maybe just this small.” I’d mimicked his pinching gesture, and he’d nodded at my admission, his thumb sweeping the tears off my cheek gently.

“Aveena, love.” He sighed. “You know Mommy loves you, right?”

It’s the way he said it.

Like he was trying to convince me that Santa was real, which, at seven years old, I knew he wasn’t. Some tool named Chad had been more than happy to burst my bubble at recess.

He was right, in a sad, disappointing way. Mommy did love me… but like she would a fake Picasso painting she bought on sale and hung up on her wall.

She was really excited about it, at first.

Until she could afford to buy the real thing. Never got around to taking down the first painting, though.

Now, it was just… there.

Collecting dust.

“Are you going to tell her?” I cut to the chase. “That it wasn’t an accident?”

Dad sucked in a breath. “I should. This is not the person I want you to be, Aveena. You will never be happy, never be at peace holding so much resentment in your heart.” He’d tapped the left side of my chest where a cavity filled with black goo would one day appear if I wasn’t careful. “But no, I won’t tell her.”

I’d blinked at him in shock.

“Why not?”

“Because the only thing you’re guilty of here is trying to remind your mother that she has two daughters. And I can never blame you for that, Love.”

I didn’t ask him to elaborate, but this simple comment revived the

glimmer of hope I’d almost let die.

He was on my side.

Still.

“But you have to apologize to your sister. Can you do that for me?” He’d arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, Papa, anything.” I’d stopped short. “But what about Mommy?”

“I’ll deal with her.”

On that note, I threw myself into my papa’s arms, holding on to him so tightly I most definitely cut off his airways. He didn’t flinch, extending his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to his chest as though his life depended on it.

Then he let me cry for what felt like an eternity.

He rubbed my back the whole way through, played with my hair until my cheeks were dry, and I was ready to function like a human being again. Dad and I agreed to leave the safety of the tree five minutes later.

That’s when I belted a scream so piercing it sent the neighbor’s Doberman into a barking fit.