Page 3 of Bittersweet Legacy

I held my breath and cleaned the vomit by the sofa, cursing him with every scrub. No 17-year-old should have had to clean up her parent’s mess… Well, no 12-year-old should have had to do that either and yet I’d done it before, I just didn’t feel the strength to start all over again.

“Why?” I asked, staring at my snoring father, once I was finally done with the cleaning,

I looked at the clock and it was past 2am, at least I didn’t have to be at work before the afternoon.

I set a glass of water and two ibuprofens on the coffee table before begrudgingly resting a blanket on his motionless body, and sat heavily on the table, facing him.

I ran my hands over my face and let out a weary sigh. Perhaps part of my leniency for his behaviour came from two things – one was the love and attention he had always given me. We never had much, him being a single father living on a meagre high-school football coach’s salary, but he never made me feel the lack of money. Our places were always small and sparse but he made sure to buy me nice clothes, sending me to dance lessons and even set up a college fund which wasn’t big, but he had been trying.

He had really turned over a new leaf when we left Boulder. I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened but part of me suspected that his drinking problem hadn’t gone unnoticed and that he feared social services would take me away. The fear of losing me had been enough to get him out of his alcoholism and to start fresh. I might have second-guessed a lot of things in my life but his love for me was never one of them.

And the second reason was the guilt I couldn’t help but feel. He repeated, time and time again, that I wasn’t to blame for my mother’s death but how could I not feel guilty when her death was so intrinsically linked with my life?

I let out a tearless sob, I was just too tired and stressed to deal with all that and couldn’t help wondering what life would have been like if mom hadn’t died.

“I’m sorry,” my father muffled, finally stirring a little.

“No, not anymore Dad. You promised.”

“I couldn’t protect you from him, I failed. He found you.”

I leaned closer, trying to ignore his breath. His eyes were closed, I was not even sure he was awake.

“Who?” I rested my hand on his shoulder and jerked him softly. “Who found me?”

“Your real father.” He replied

My what?

Chapter 2

I woke to muffled voices that sounded like an argument. I blinked at the clock, was my father even sober enough at 7am to have a coherent conversation?

I padded to the door and cracked it open just enough to hear better. It was one of the advantages of living in a shoe box, the lack of privacy. Whilst it annoyed me most of the time, when my father could listen to my phone conversations, today, I was thankful.

“What do you mean she is not ready?” A man snapped with a cold voice I was unfamiliar with.

“Listen, I didn’t have time to –” my father started, his voice almost begging.

I frowned, opening the door more trying to see who was there. My father wasn’t a beggar, and this was out of character.

“I don’t care. I was generous enough to give you 48 hours. It was much more consideration than you ever gave me. I want her now or I swear I’ll call the sheriff and get you locked up.”

“William, please.”

“Now, Luke.”

“Dad, are you okay?” I asked, taking a step out of the room.

“Esme baby just give me a minute.”

“Come closer, Esmeralda.” The man ordered.

Esmeralda?I grimaced; I was not a Hugo’s character.

I tiptoed barefoot to the entrance, not really caring about how I looked.

The man standing in front of the door was so imposing, I took a step back.

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