I am nineteen, and I have only one thing left to live for. I have lost everything else.
If you despise stories with sad endings, put this down now. I may only be nineteen, but I know that the happiest times of my life are over. The rest of my life will be loneliness and despair.
I have been in love before. Not that usual teenage-love crap where you swear you'll just die if Adam doesn't ask you to the dance on Friday. Real love, the kind most never get, or at least not until they're about fifty. I was seventeen.
My loved one has died, but my love for him never will. He was the one person who never let me down.
My mom was the first person to let me down. One afternoon when I was five, she came into my room and said these words, "Mommy's going on a trip. I'll come back soon and get you." I stood at my bedroom window and watched her drive off in my dad's Mercedes.
For three years, I stood at my bedroom window waiting for that Mercedes to pull in the driveway. Finally, I realized she was never coming back. Then, three weeks after my tenth birthday, I got a late card. "Dear Jenny, I hope you have a great birthday. I'm in France, and I will come get you soon. Love, Mom."
For another two years, I stood in my bedroom window watching for her. Then I woke up one morning and realized how stupid I was. If Mom had let me down once, why wouldn't she do it again? I tried to forget my mother, but every now and then, I caught myself looking out the window, still expecting to see the Mercedes pulling into the driveway. I was confused and hurt, and I vowed that I would never let anyone else let me down again.
Unfortunately, it was to happen many more times. I grew up with my dad. The one thing I don't blame my mom for is divorcing that guy and taking his car while she was at it.
To say Dad didn't like kids would be an understatement. The only reason he didn't dump me on the relatives when Mom split was because they had all either died of drug overdoses or they were about a hundred years old and in mental hospitals. Nice family, huh?
Actually, I think maybe Dad did like kids. Maybe he just didn't like me, because everyone always used to say I looked like my mother. Dad used to say the same thing himself, but he never said it like it was a good thing. Usually he said it after he'd had six or seven cans of beer. "...You're selfish, just like your mother, and you're inconsiderate, just like your mother and come to think of it, you look just like her too! God, I wish she'd taken you with her."
He was only like that when he was drinking. Most of the time, he was a wonderful father. He read me bedtime stories and tucked me into bed when I was little. He helped me with my homework, never getting impatient when I didn't understand something. He stayed home from work and made me homemade chicken noodle soup when I was sick.