Nine years ago

“I want my mama.” I cross my skinny arms and tuck my chin into my neck, glaring at my father from beneath my brows. I do this when things aren’t going my way, say those cruel words so I can watch him wince, witness his heart practically writhing in pain when he hears the word mama or mommy or mom.

I’m only twelve and I already know how to stick it to my father where it hurts the most.

His voice is reed-thin when he says, “You know she can’t be here with you, Jenny. I’ve told you this time and again.”

“I don’t care.” I cross my arms tighter, to the point that it hurts, and I relish in the pain. At least I’m feeling something. “Where did she go? Why doesn’t she like me?”

“She loves you, sweetheart. She just…doesn’t know how to show it.”

“I don’t believe you.” I know he’s lying. Why won’t he tell me the truth? “Why doesn’t she come see us? Come see me? Where is she?”

Daddy sighs. Shakes his head. Blinks at me like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “Gone. Gone, gone, gone.”

The thing is, he knows where she is. I know he does. I found a thin folder in his desk one Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago, when he was outside mowing the weeds in the front yard and I was supposed to be cleaning the bathroom. I got bored and started rummaging around in his desk, looking for clues. To what, I’m never sure.

I just know my life is a mystery and he’s the one holding onto all the information.

I flipped through that folder with muted fascination, reading all the newspaper and magazine articles he clipped out, all about a woman named Diane. I picked up one glossy page torn out of a magazine, clutching the jagged edges tight as I stared hard at her face.

Her face sorta looked like mine, especially when she smiled. And when I saw that, I knew without a doubt she was a part of me. That I was a part of her.

“She’s not gone,” I tell him, feeling defiant. My voice is firm and my heart is beating so hard it feels like it wants to leap out of my chest.

“Yes, she is,” he says wearily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s tired. He works hard but makes little. There’s never much to eat, I don’t have many clothes to wear and my shoes are too tight. I don’t remember the last time I got a haircut and I need a bra but I don’t have one, so I wear that old coat of mine all the time so the boys can’t see my boobs. They’re getting so big and sometimes they hurt, especially when I do P.E. But how do I tell Daddy that? He doesn’t know how to get me a bra. He can barely take care of himself.

“No, she’s not. And I need her. There’s stuff a girl needs from her mom that her dad can’t help her with,” I tell him, lifting my chin. “We need to call her.”

“We can’t.”

“Write her then.”

“Can’t do that either, Jenny.”

“Then let’s go to her fancy house and tell her I need her help!” I scream the last word, relishing in the pained expression on my father’s face. I bet I shocked him when I said fancy house, because she lives in one. I know exactly who my mama is.

It’s that lady in the magazine. Diane.

She doesn’t have the same last name as us because she’s married someone else, even though I thought she was married to my daddy. She’s got some other rich guy who takes care of her. They have a family, kids and stuff—two that look my age, maybe a little older, and a younger one, a little girl who wears beautiful dresses and has pretty hair—and here I sit with just my daddy in a rotten old house with hardly any food in the fridge and nothing much to call ours.

I hate her for that. If she’d just come see me, if she would just help me, then maybe I could forgive her.

But I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.

“What do you need help with?” Daddy asks. “I can help you.”

I shake my head furiously. “No, you can’t.”

“I can, Jenny. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you.” The look he sends me is pleading. “Let me help you.”

“I want my mama!” I sound like a baby, but I don’t care.

Anger makes his face tighten up. I made him mad, but for once, I don’t care. “No. She’s dead to us,” he spits out.

He hasn’t said that to me in a long time. His words used to make me cry. I’d scream no and run to my room, crying into my pillow. I didn’t like it when he said she was dead to us.

Now I realize it’s the opposite. We’re dead to her. She doesn’t care about us. She can’t. What mom would act this way? Why would a wife leave a man she’s supposed to love? I don’t get it.

“That doesn’t mean she’s really dead. I know who she is, Daddy.” I drop my arms and stand right in front of him. My father is tall, but he’s skinny. He’s not very intimidating, what with that sad look on his face all the time. People know my daddy has a broken heart, but he doesn’t do much to try and fix it. No one else does either. How can you fix a man who doesn’t want to be fixed? “Let’s go see her.”

“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes glassy. Like he might start to cry.

I’ve seen him cry a lot. You ever watch movies or TV shows where the men say they don’t cry? They’ve never met my daddy. He cries all the time. I used to cry with him.

I stopped doing that about a year ago. I’m tired of crying. I want to do something.

“Why not?” I grab his hands. They feel paper-thin and they’re so cold. Like there’s no life in him. “Please, Daddy. I bet if she saw me, she’d want to help.”

“She left us a long time ago. She doesn’t want to help us.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to help you, but she might want me.” That’s the only thing that gives me any hope, that my mom doesn’t realize how much I look like her, or how much I need her. Maybe she forgot about me. Maybe my daddy told her we didn’t want her, but that’s not true. I want her.

I want her in my life so bad.

He sighs again, more shaking of the head, more whispers of my name like I’m a hopeless, ridiculous little girl. I’m not. I’m growing up. Daddy might not see it, but it’s true.

“It’s not going to happen,” he says firmly. “So for the love of Christ, stop asking for her like a little baby! She doesn’t care about us, okay? She doesn’t care about me and she definitely doesn’t care about you.”

His tone is venomous. Final. He’s breathing hard when he finishes and I’m breathing hard too, tears streaming down my face, landing on my lips so I can taste the salt. We stare at each other, our chests heaving, our bodies trembling. Mine is at least, and I think his is too.

“I hate you,” I whisper just before I turn and run to my room.

“You don’t mean what you say,” he calls after me as I throw myself on my bed. “You don’t have anyone else, Jennifer Rae! And don’t you forget it!”

I push my face into my pillow, trying to drown out his words, but I know he speaks the truth.

I know he’s all I have.

I know my mama doesn’t love me.

I don’t know what I did to her to make her feel that way.