Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 67663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I had thought life was going well for my family. I was making something of myself in the Army, somebody my wife and child could be proud of. Erin was supportive during my deployments and missions. She was always quick to show me how much she loved me. My mom was enjoying the time she spent with both Erin and Brooke.
Then the red-cross message came in while I was on a mission in Kosovo. When on a mission, communication to and from home is limited, to say the least. There was no direct line to reach me. My mom followed protocol and used the red-cross to send the devastating news to my Command, who then allowed it to trickle down to me.
Erin was hit by a drunk driver. D-O-A, dead on arrival.
She was nineteen years old with an almost three-year-old little girl at home, and just like that, she was gone.
The woman who hit her was leaving a kid’s birthday party with her own two children in tow. According to the police report, she admitted to having a few glasses of wine at the party. The toxicology report showed a blood alcohol level double the legal limit. Doesn’t matter what any of the reports say; bottom line, she walked away with only minor injuries and her children. Meanwhile, my daughter will never get the chance to really know her mom.
It is the epitome of a fucked-up tragedy.
Brooke will never see, for herself, the way Erin used to smile down at her as she fell asleep. Tuck the blankets around her little body. Sing her a lullaby. Kiss her on the forehead goodnight.
She will never hear the melodic sounds of her mother’s laughter. God, I loved Erin’s laugh. It was loud and beautiful. Anyone who heard it either stopped and stared or laughed along with her.
Brooke had no mom to explain her body to her. That was a nightmare for me, of epic proportions. What man wants his teenaged daughter to ask him when she will start her period? I still shudder every time I remember that awkward conversation. Or, I should say, lack of conversation because I immediately called my mother and told her to handle that shit. I don’t talk about periods with the women I fuck, so I sure as shit am not going to talk about it with my daughter.
She had no mom to do her hair for her first homecoming dance or go dress shopping with her. Instead, I sprang for her to go to a well-known hairstylist and asked my mom to help her pick out a dress. I have already decided, for prom this year, I will give her my cash, and she can shop with her friends. When she comes home, she will twirl around in her dress, much like she did when she was a little girl, and I will tell her she is beautiful.
Brooke will never be able to see for herself that she is her mother’s daughter. No, my daughter misses all of this and so much more, all because of the poor choices of one individual.
My mom stepped up after Erin’s death, practically raising Brooke until I got out of the Army. That was when my mom got the news of her cancer, and I had to step up. I had always been an active part of Brooke’s life while I was home, but then it was time to tackle twenty-four-seven single parenthood.
Needless to say, Brooke and I are still adjusting, especially after Mom lost her battle with cancer, not quite six months ago. It has been hard, my lifestyle making it more challenging; however, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for my baby girl.
Thinking about my mom and the influence she had on Brooke, I can’t help smiling. She did her best to teach Brooke, guiding her into young womanhood. She did not only instill in Brooke how to have confidence and be an independent girl, but also the basics around the house she was afraid I wouldn’t teach as a man.
“You could cook, ya know? Grams taught you to bake cookies and shit,” I remind my teen.
Brooke laughs her mother’s laugh. “Shit- if I cook, that’s what you’re gonna get for dinner- Shit.”
In my days in the Army, I had enough MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—and tasteless chow hall grub to last me a lifetime. There is no way I want to risk a dinner that tastes that bad again.
“Steakhouse or Mexican?” I ask, turning to make my way back down the hall.
“Mexican,” she replies, running past me to grab her helmet, letting me know she wants to take the bike.
Spoiled rotten little shit. She knows I won’t deny her.
Morgan
Looking at my phone screen, I smile at the text in front of me.
I’m off 2nite. Movie @ ur house or mine?