I’m an orphan.
When I lost my father, I remember feeling like I would never breathe again. I was Daddy’s little girl. He made me feel like a princess, he loved me the way a father should, and he spoiled me in every way possible. He was a very handsome man, with dark brown hair, light green eyes, and dark stubble that he left a little longer than he should because it gave my mother a reason to fuss at him. He loved when she fussed at him; he said it meant she loved him. He had a low tenor voice, one that could be used to do the commentary for movies or documentaries. He used to sing to me, an old song from his homeland. Even now, when I am nervous, I sing it. It helps. Somehow, it helps dull the pain of not having him.
I was twelve when we lost him to a drunk driver.
Somehow, my mother and I survived losing him, though. We learned to go on with him still deep in our hearts and souls. We helped each other to cope with the pain of losing him. She was not only the most amazing mother, but she was a great father too. Some days were hard. I’d wake up and say I was having a bad Dad day, and she would reply that she was, too. We would just cry, for hours, but then she would hug me tightly, tell me that the sun was shining and so shall we, and we did until the day she found out she had throat cancer.
My favorite thing about my mother was her smile, but she soon stopped smiling and so did I. The day I found her at the table with tears dripping from her eyes, I asked if she was having a bad Dad day, and she shook her head and just kept apologizing. I didn’t understand and when she told me what was going on, I didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be happening. I had already lost my dad and now my mom, too? It wasn’t fair.
When you were eighteen, you were supposed to be excited for prom, boyfriends, going off to college, and starting a new, refreshing life. But not me. All that came to a halting stop. My dreams of learning the written word, and maybe meeting a boy to spend time with, went up in flames. Instead, I became a caregiver for my mother. I stayed home and studied online as I waited hand and foot on her. I watched for two years as my mother slowly died before my eyes and to be honest, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. At least I know she went, knowing I loved her more than life itself, when she cupped my face and slowly took her last breath before joining my father in heaven.
When the hospice nurse came after I tucked my mother in bed and had a good, long cry, they were surprised how strong I was and commended me on it. I said it was because of her, and how she raised me to be strong. They knew she begged me to put her in a home, but I’d be damned. She was my best friend. She cared for me my whole life, and I was going to care for her. Plus, I knew she felt more comfortable with me than some nurses she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if her parents could come and help. They had long passed before I was even born. All she had was her brother that lived in New York, and he couldn’t be bothered with her.
Even now, as I watch him from across my mother’s casket, which is covered in beautiful, white roses, I can’t help but wonder why he came. He isn’t even crying. He is just standing there, with the same blue eyes as my mother, looking as if he’d rather be playing golf than acting as if he is mourning her. I choke back the tears as I look around at all the people that have come to pay their respects—neighbors, family friends, and coworkers. Even some of my old high school teachers are here, and I feel nothing. I want to jump into that casket with her and go to heaven too. I don’t want or know how to go on without her. Who is going to help me mourn her?
Wiping away the tears rolling down my cheeks, I take in a deep breath as I softly start to sing my father’s song. In my head, I only hear my parents and not myself as they softly sing Liam Clancy’s, “The Parting Glass” to me. My mother couldn’t sing for anything, but none of us cared. We would all sing and most of all, we were all happy. But now, my throat feels tight, my limbs are numb, and I just feel empty.
When the song I am singing plays over a radio, that’s when I squeeze my eyes tight because I know they are lowering her into the ground. I don’t want to see it. I hate knowing it is happening. Soon, it is over and everyone is hugging me, gently squeezing my hands, wishing me well, and saying that they are there for me if I need them. When my uncle is the last to come up to me, I want to scream at him, Why did you come? I hate that he wasn’t there for her because I know if I had a sibling, I would always be there for them. Especially someone like my mom—she was so sweet, so caring, so loving—and he couldn’t even be there at the end for her. Couldn’t be there for me. His only niece.
I can tell he is uncomfortable, and I’m glad he is. As he runs his hands through his dark red hair, he lets out a breath before saying, “Amberlyn, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s your loss, too,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The dress I’m wearing scratches my ribs, and I want to pull at it, but I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze as he slowly nods.
“You’re right, our loss, and I want you to know that I am here if you need anything.”
“I won’t.”
He looks away. “Yeah, I know you won’t, but in case you do.”
I don’t say anything, even knowing he is waiting for me to. What does he want me to say? Thank you? Hell no.
“Anyway, here,” he says, opening his suit jacket to pull out an envelope. “Ciara wanted me to give this to you.”
I take it quickly because I see my name in my mom’s handwriting on the front. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “She sent it to me in a letter and said to give it to you on the day of her funeral. She also told me to tell you to call me once you’ve read it, and I’ll tell you what we will do next.”
I’m confused. I look up with my brows pulled together as I say, “What? Do what next? I am going to pick up the pieces and figure out how to live without her. How the hell are you going to help me with that?”
He runs his hands through his unruly hair, and I see something I haven’t seen all day—pain. He is in pain, and it completely boggles my mind. He didn’t care about her or me—why is he in pain?
“Just read the letter, Amberlyn. When you are done, call me and we will go from there. Again, I’m sorry and I wish that things had played out differently. I cared more about work than I did my family, and now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
When I lost my father, I remember feeling like I would never breathe again. I was Daddy’s little girl. He made me feel like a princess, he loved me the way a father should, and he spoiled me in every way possible. He was a very handsome man, with dark brown hair, light green eyes, and dark stubble that he left a little longer than he should because it gave my mother a reason to fuss at him. He loved when she fussed at him; he said it meant she loved him. He had a low tenor voice, one that could be used to do the commentary for movies or documentaries. He used to sing to me, an old song from his homeland. Even now, when I am nervous, I sing it. It helps. Somehow, it helps dull the pain of not having him.
I was twelve when we lost him to a drunk driver.
Somehow, my mother and I survived losing him, though. We learned to go on with him still deep in our hearts and souls. We helped each other to cope with the pain of losing him. She was not only the most amazing mother, but she was a great father too. Some days were hard. I’d wake up and say I was having a bad Dad day, and she would reply that she was, too. We would just cry, for hours, but then she would hug me tightly, tell me that the sun was shining and so shall we, and we did until the day she found out she had throat cancer.
My favorite thing about my mother was her smile, but she soon stopped smiling and so did I. The day I found her at the table with tears dripping from her eyes, I asked if she was having a bad Dad day, and she shook her head and just kept apologizing. I didn’t understand and when she told me what was going on, I didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be happening. I had already lost my dad and now my mom, too? It wasn’t fair.
When you were eighteen, you were supposed to be excited for prom, boyfriends, going off to college, and starting a new, refreshing life. But not me. All that came to a halting stop. My dreams of learning the written word, and maybe meeting a boy to spend time with, went up in flames. Instead, I became a caregiver for my mother. I stayed home and studied online as I waited hand and foot on her. I watched for two years as my mother slowly died before my eyes and to be honest, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. At least I know she went, knowing I loved her more than life itself, when she cupped my face and slowly took her last breath before joining my father in heaven.
When the hospice nurse came after I tucked my mother in bed and had a good, long cry, they were surprised how strong I was and commended me on it. I said it was because of her, and how she raised me to be strong. They knew she begged me to put her in a home, but I’d be damned. She was my best friend. She cared for me my whole life, and I was going to care for her. Plus, I knew she felt more comfortable with me than some nurses she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if her parents could come and help. They had long passed before I was even born. All she had was her brother that lived in New York, and he couldn’t be bothered with her.
Even now, as I watch him from across my mother’s casket, which is covered in beautiful, white roses, I can’t help but wonder why he came. He isn’t even crying. He is just standing there, with the same blue eyes as my mother, looking as if he’d rather be playing golf than acting as if he is mourning her. I choke back the tears as I look around at all the people that have come to pay their respects—neighbors, family friends, and coworkers. Even some of my old high school teachers are here, and I feel nothing. I want to jump into that casket with her and go to heaven too. I don’t want or know how to go on without her. Who is going to help me mourn her?
Wiping away the tears rolling down my cheeks, I take in a deep breath as I softly start to sing my father’s song. In my head, I only hear my parents and not myself as they softly sing Liam Clancy’s, “The Parting Glass” to me. My mother couldn’t sing for anything, but none of us cared. We would all sing and most of all, we were all happy. But now, my throat feels tight, my limbs are numb, and I just feel empty.
When the song I am singing plays over a radio, that’s when I squeeze my eyes tight because I know they are lowering her into the ground. I don’t want to see it. I hate knowing it is happening. Soon, it is over and everyone is hugging me, gently squeezing my hands, wishing me well, and saying that they are there for me if I need them. When my uncle is the last to come up to me, I want to scream at him, Why did you come? I hate that he wasn’t there for her because I know if I had a sibling, I would always be there for them. Especially someone like my mom—she was so sweet, so caring, so loving—and he couldn’t even be there at the end for her. Couldn’t be there for me. His only niece.
I can tell he is uncomfortable, and I’m glad he is. As he runs his hands through his dark red hair, he lets out a breath before saying, “Amberlyn, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s your loss, too,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The dress I’m wearing scratches my ribs, and I want to pull at it, but I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze as he slowly nods.
“You’re right, our loss, and I want you to know that I am here if you need anything.”
“I won’t.”
He looks away. “Yeah, I know you won’t, but in case you do.”
I don’t say anything, even knowing he is waiting for me to. What does he want me to say? Thank you? Hell no.
“Anyway, here,” he says, opening his suit jacket to pull out an envelope. “Ciara wanted me to give this to you.”
I take it quickly because I see my name in my mom’s handwriting on the front. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “She sent it to me in a letter and said to give it to you on the day of her funeral. She also told me to tell you to call me once you’ve read it, and I’ll tell you what we will do next.”
I’m confused. I look up with my brows pulled together as I say, “What? Do what next? I am going to pick up the pieces and figure out how to live without her. How the hell are you going to help me with that?”
He runs his hands through his unruly hair, and I see something I haven’t seen all day—pain. He is in pain, and it completely boggles my mind. He didn’t care about her or me—why is he in pain?
“Just read the letter, Amberlyn. When you are done, call me and we will go from there. Again, I’m sorry and I wish that things had played out differently. I cared more about work than I did my family, and now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
