A baby grows up to resent her mother. If you held a child for nine months, how would you feel?
Behind this black-streaked door with marks that scrape across the paint as if drawn on by tiger claws, I know she's there. Even she isn't, her essence is. What is left of a baby girl born with no hair and eyes that took in the world like big glass orbs is just a punk on puppet strings. But I still love her.
I made her--at least, half of her. Maybe if her father had stayed around for a few more years, she'd be a little happier. But all the what-ifs in the world can't turn back time, can't take back the things I've said out of frustration and rage. Post-father era girls don't choose their life's path anymore; they let mischevious blonde-haired boys with tattoos and mystery choose for them.
Can you blame her for hating me? She doesn't know who her father is. My fault, I presume. Nothing more than dark romance staved with red hot pokers was our past, until the fire dried up and the ashes crumbled away. He went his way for better happenings with one last kiss on her forehead. A baby wouldn't remember those nights, where liquor stained our carpets and walls mysteriously dented themselves. Can we all just forget?
But every morning, my baby would call out for Daddy. Never for me. She faded from my arms the moment she could walk, but she was always walking for Daddy, always checking our room for Daddy. When those memories faded, too, she only had her resentment of my presence left in her. And now she hates me.
I'm the lock on her black door. I'm the bars on her window. I'm the block on TV for late night HBO. I'm her captor, and never her savior. She is all I have left, but she is nothing more than an enigma of the baby she used to be.