Happy Birthday, Sweetie..

"Happy Birthday, Sweetie"

by @erikacmorales
I am a product of a broken-hearted and gravely devastated woman and a man who undyingly loved her all his life.
My mom never loved my dad. All she ever wished she married was her vain, conceited, cheating ex-boyfriend who cares for nothing but his goddamn car.

My dad was madly in love with mom. In fact, he worshiped her. He was persistent. If the heavens had given away hopes and perseverance, he must have caught them all. My mom had been ignoring him and rejected him for times he could no longer count. She hated him but dad tirelessly presents himself as her shoulder to cry on. He had always dreamed to become her savior. Her hero. But mom looks at him as someone not less than a clumsy bag of bones. He was thin and unattractive, but he had the kindest heart.

One day mom surprisingly called dad up. She was weeping over the phone. Her douchebag boyfriend broke up with her. It was dad’s graduation that day but his developed Messiah complex towards her prevailed. So expectedly, he came to the rescue. How could he skip his own graduation.

That night, dad never left mom. Seeing her grieve to death broke his heart and hearing her pains and heartaches tore him to pieces. It killed him but as a just-another-man-in-love, he was seizing the moment. They drank. She cried. They drank again. They hugged. And then drank. They kissed. Drank once more. And then they mindlessly made me.

My dad was the happiest person when I was born. My mom, well she only hated him more. She blamed him for every bit of her miserable and unhappy life including my “unwanted” existence. She even named me Isabella – the name of her ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend. The second person she hated the most next to dad.

But dad never made me feel that I was disliked--- that I was hated by my own mother. He gave the best alibis. He gave the most acceptable reasons. I remember when I was 4 and I overheard them fighting in the kitchen over something called “abortion”. As a little and naturally curious kid, I asked dad about it. He said that the word was another brand of milk my mom wanted to give me because it was healthier than what I usually drink and that she was angry because he forgot to include it in the groceries. Normally, I believed and forgot about it. But later when I grew older and smarter, I realized that mom actually wished I was never alive.

My birthdays were the best days of my life when I was a kid. Thanks to dad. He consistently did the same things every year which I always liked and sort of memorized. He would come to my room with a glass of milk early in the morning, sit beside me, kiss me in the forehead, whisper “Happy Birthday, sweetie” in my ear and hugs me till I get up. I never got tired of the routine. I just loved it. And then we’d watch movies, ride carousels and Ferris wheels, eat cotton candies and donuts and buy new things I like. Mom never came with us but dad would give me greeting cards and birthday gifts telling me that they were all from mom. Again I believed and didn’t mind.

On my 10th birthday, I was surprised to wake up by myself. No dad sitting beside me, kissing and hugging me till I get up. I thought maybe the milk wasn’t ready yet. Or did he forget about my birthday? No. Dad never forgets my birthday. I waited and pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want to spoil my birthday routine. Still, no dad came. I waited a little more. No dad, at all. Finally I decided to get up and see what was going on. I got out of my room and walked to the kitchen. And then I saw what would haunt me forever.

He was lying on the kitchen floor. He was aching. He was bleeding. He was struggling for some air. My milk was all over him. And I can only do nothing but watch him slowly cease to exist. He looked me in the eyes and gave the kind of stare that could paralyze. I was standing straight but felt like a limp. I could speak but was lost for words. I was unharmed but was as breathless as he is. And then in his softest and almost disappearing voice he said, “Happy Birthday, sweetie. I’m sorry I spilled your milk.” He smiled. He breathed for the last time. My dad is gone.

My life became an unimaginable hell hole since dad died. That’s when I have completely felt how my mom loathed me. She, in fact, made me feel like I’m non-existent. Years later, mom married the man of her dreams—her scumbag ex-boyfriend in college. They lived together. How happy could they be. I lived with them. How miserable could I get.

When I became 16, they sent me to a boarding school. My room was filthy, ugly, and the smell of booze and cigarette were all over the place. It was horrible, but for the first time in so many years, I felt that I was home. One would really consider any place else heaven when, in all her life, she has lived in hell.

It’s been two years since I left home. Today, is my birthday. And once again I am reminded of how a “Happy Birthday, sweetie” would make this day the happiest and, at the same time, how it would make it the saddest.

It haunted me for 8 years and it haunts me again. If only I have not waited for dad to come to my room that day. If only I got into the kitchen earlier. If only I have stopped mom from doing what she had done.#

Thanks for reading! :)
Photo from Pixabay.com