Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
When I finally pull up in front of her house, I’m reminded of all the times I ran away, snuck out that front window, and escaped. I always came back, but she never knew. Linda was always passed out somewhere in the house, so it was never an issue.
I lock my car, then walk up to the front door and knock. I hear her yell out that she’s coming, and when the door opens, I’m greeted by Linda, who, I might add, does not look drunk. Her salt-and-pepper hair is down and has slight waves, and she’s wearing a floral dress that looks good on her. When her gaze lands on me, it brightens for just a second before she opens her mouth.
“Lilith.” This woman is the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known. When my father was off doing God knows what, and I wasn’t with a sitter, I was with Linda. That was a lot of the time. So, when he went away, it seemed to make sense to be with her full-time. I don’t even remember questioning it. “It’s been so long.”
“Yes, it has,” I agree.
I haven’t seen much of her since I was with Deven. He never liked Linda, and I understand why. She always had a drink in her hand. But right now, as she stands in front of me, I see no evidence of her drinking. She almost seems… sober?
“Come in, please.”
Her house is old, with the paint chipping away and peeling off over the years. It has a front porch connected to my old room, where I used to slide the window up and sneak out. Linda’s room was at the back of the house, so it was easy to sneak out without her knowledge. I don’t bother removing my shoes as she holds the door open.
“Your father told me you visited him.”
“You speak to him?” I ask.
“Of course, dear, he’s my brother.”
She shuts the door behind me, and I follow her into the kitchen. Everything is neat and clean, which is the first thing I notice. It’s not dirty and untidy anymore. There aren’t bottles lying around, and the sink has no dirty dishes piled in it. There are plants everywhere, growing and thriving. This house always felt so dead when I was a teenager, and now it’s bursting with life.
“He said it was the first time he’s seen you since I took you in all those years ago. I guess you went on and created a better life for yourself, which makes us happy and sad at the same time.”
“I’m divorced,” I say woodenly. Her mouth forms the perfect O before she turns and pulls out a pitcher of iced tea—I bet it’s peach-flavored. She used to make it for me when she was sober, and I can’t help but wonder how many sober days she’s had. “The house looks better,” I say, and I mean it.
“Yeah, well, I’m better. So, I guess when you feel better, the things around you do as well.” She pours a glass and places it in front of me. “I’m sorry to hear about your divorce. I only met him once when you were engaged, but I got the feeling he never liked me to begin with.”
I wave her off and then reach for the glass. “Don’t be sorry. He was a cheating pig, and he hated the fact that my family was so broken and that my father was in prison.” Wrapping my fingers around it, I look at her. “Where is the alcohol?” I ask. It’s usually never out of sight. There would be a bottle on the counter or near the couch. Anywhere and everywhere.
“I’ve been sober for two years.” Her words leave me speechless, the weight of her revelation sinking in slowly.
“Why? How?”
She takes the seat opposite me and flattens her hands on the table. Her nails, which have dirt under them, tap the floral tablecloth as she looks me in the eye.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t better for you. I know I was all you had, and I apologize.” She stretches her hand out for mine, but I pull back.
“I don’t need you to be sorry. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” she asks, raising a brow.
“What did my father tell you?”
She leans back in her seat, and I see a look of disappointment flash across her face before she says, “You have the same desires as him.”
“Why would he tell you that?” I shake my head, not caring about the answer. “I came for my birth certificate,” I tell her.
She gets up and goes into another room. I hear a few things rattle before she returns and places it in front of me. I look it over and, sure enough, my father is not listed. Lilith Hackleburg. Hackleburg is my maiden name. I wasn’t given my father’s name at birth; I always assumed it was because my mother insisted I have hers.