“I watch my dad stuff his clothes in big black garbage bags. He even takes the clothes all the way in the back of the closet. The ones he hasn’t worn since high school. The clothes you wish you could fit into someday. This makes me think he’s not coming back. Maybe today is his someday. His someday when he will get a new body, a new home, and a new family.
I take my little sister outside and hold her hand all the way around the block. There’s a lollipop in my pocket, magically convenient for this exact moment. We walk on the broken sidewalk and stare into the windows full of people who laugh and smile. The sidewalks feel familiar. They are broken, faded, and forgotten. Will anyone ever fill them in and make them new? When the November air gets chilly, we head home, but somehow, being inside doesn’t warm me up.
I get really good at waiting. I wait on the stoop in my dirty sneakers with holes the same as the cheese I refuse to eat. I wait until the street lights come on. Until the sky turns shades of pink and red the same color as my broken heart. I wait until I hear the train go over the track. I wait until another car drives down my block. It’s not the right color.
I keep telling myself I’ll wait five more minutes. I will wait until I see the goosebumps form on my legs. I will wait until my mom pulls me inside. I will wait all week for a phone call. I will wait until I hear one more excuse. Sometimes the right words will keep me hanging on a little longer. I will continue this waiting game. This game I’m really good at.
Somehow, the stoop gets colder, or maybe it’s because I’m wearing a mini skirt. I’m wearing high heels and the perfect shade of lipstick. My hair is much longer now. I’m not waiting for the same person. I wait until I can’t breathe. All this waiting has caused me anxiety. Sometimes, I take medication to make it better but the waiting doesn’t change.
It seems I’ve been waiting all my life. Waiting for a little token, a smidgen, a drop, an ounce of any inkling I’m worth more than a bunch of broken promises. I’m waiting as a daughter, as a mother, and as a wife. Waiting for the drinking to stop. Waiting for our family to be healed. Waiting for people to change. I’m so tired of waiting.
I refuse to let my children sit next to me on this stoop. I take my watch off, and I throw it in the bottom of a pail. It’s time I love myself.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by a woman who wishes to remain anonymous. Submit your own story here.
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