The champagne turns cold in my hand as I hear the ticking of the clock as the hour that I met my daughter approaches.
I still remember the look of wonder she had given me after I had met her, while her long lashes flickered the bright sunlight away. Of course she had been blind, as most babies are at that age, but I had felt that she knew who I was. Her fingers had sent the same shiver down my spine that Jenna had introduced to me; this was our own shiver, our own defined love.
When she had left, my life became half a void. One half is for my Lorena, at least for her I remain half lucid of my surroundings. The other half belongs to my dead wife; who forever haunts my drunken stupors, in the late hours of the night when Lorena is asleep.
I have built a legacy of law and discipline for my only daughter, but my only sin is missing my wife too much and loving the disastrous yearnings of alcohol. Perhaps this was the life destined for me so long ago. You can call me a hypocrite, you may call me whatever you wish to; but the point of the matter is that I am here and Jenna isn't.
I take a sip of the champagne and shrug off the warmness as it soaks my tight throat. The bubbles of destruction don't do justice to my needs as much as they used to and I am soon craving for a much stronger drink. Lorena is the only source that could ever stop me from such a craving.
The papers of my most recent case are tossed on my desk like an explosion of my defendant's soon to be extinct freedom, and I hear the soft footsteps on the long hallway stairs indicating the existence of Lorena. Clutching my glass tightly enough to stifle my pain, but softly enough so as to not show my facade to my daughter, I stand up and greet her.
She is a replica of her mother, except for the brown eyes of my family. The sadness of Jenna is gone, but the dominant black hair is still there. She is shorter than me; shorter than her mother had been and her lips are drawn tight as she sees me.
"Lorena," I say to her, embracing her, along with my glass of champagne, into a tight hug. "Happy birthday!"
"Thanks dad," I hear her muffled voice from my shoulder. "I think I'm going out for a while."
"Oh really?" I am taken aback and my body shows this by suddenly pulling away. "Is it a boy?"
"No daddy," she says, crossing her arms and giving me the look her mother used to give when her sadness had ebbed away. "I'm just going to go for a walk."
I hear the click of the lock as Lorena leaves and sit at my desk once more. I put away my champagne bottle in a cabinet behind my desk and finally pull the bottle of whiskey I am craving out. I pour myself a healing sum in the glass that hosted my champagne not too long ago and I begin the process of drinking. Every sip reminds me of every small detail of her.
My dead wife.