What’s My Age Again?
Aged four or five I had been living a child’s perfect dream. I had a mother, a father, a grandmother, and cats whom I loved; everything was serene. I had toys to play with, music to listen and dance to, and a home that felt like home. After this things started to fall apart; I realized how imperfect it was and how blinded I had been. Soon I had realized that the reason I always felt so alone was because I was an only child who had to stay to herself and had to grow up.
My mother worked hard and she took the little time left out of her tiring day from the minute she got home to be with me. My father’s only communication with me was asking when dinner was ready. My grandmother, or Nana as I call her, was busy keeping the house clean and cooking, but whenever she had the time she would come and talk with me or watch a show. Those small moments seem to mean the most. I remember one day it was a clear summer sky out with the birds and flowers just calling out for a visit. I begged her if we could go outside and look at them and after a few minutes she agreed. All we did was walk around the backyard stopping to see where new flowers had grown and more often than not I would pick one and put it in my hair. I remember how simple that moment was and it really is one of the most priceless I could ever imagine having. There are a few moments like this I can remember, where it seemed like time had just frozen giving us the ability to make it last much longer. But eventually time turned back to reality and the sun was starting to sink making us go indoors. I understood even then that my father was the man of the house and what he said for the most part went. When he came home the atmosphere of the house seemed to change, there was more of a sense of needing to be on your toes: no noise or unnecessary talking. All you would hear in the house was the faint sound of the mariachi music Nana and I listened to and the sound of him on his phone with work, usually arguing. He never did stop working and I’m not sure why. I doubt he’s even sure why, but it was what it was and all he did. Aside from that he sat in a room by himself watching television and using his laptop only coming out to eat or go to bed.
Later when my mother came home I would rush to the door to meet her and she would come in to say hi to Nana, hug her, and ask her what’s cooking. She would change out of her work clothes and then check her email. After this she would come to the kitchen and as us how our day was and what we did. Then she would talk about work or her friends and the drama and I would soak it up waiting on her every word. We three had a bond that was as strong as obsidian and still is, and back then it showed. When my mother and my father would fight I would always be stuck in the middle. And when it came to that I always defended my mother even if I hadn’t the slightest clue about what they were yelling about. I don’t specifically remember this but apparently when I was little my father had made my mother burst into tears during dinner and walked off to his sanctuary: the television. I marched off after him and made him apologize as I wouldn’t have anyone disrespect her in such a way. I quickly became aware of how they didn’t get along mainly because my mother loved him with all her heart and he never showed he had one.

By seven years old I took care of myself for everything but cooking as my limit was toast and cereal. I would do any work I needed to, help Nana if she needed it, and then go off to entertain myself. They were simple days as long as he stayed to my father stayed to his territory and I didn’t bother him. I had learned soon on that he didn’t want to do anything aside from what he already did. The only times when he would change this was when he taught me how to use a computer and how to fix the problems that arose on it so I wouldn’t need to come and get him. I had wished for him to play a board game a few times, but he always refused always saying “Why don’t you go and play with your mother? I’m sure she’d be willing to.” To this I responded, “But I want to play with you, I never do anything with you, can’t we please play for just five minutes?” He would look at me, look back at the T.V. screen and simply say “No.” That “No” was all I ever got so I gave up on it. After seeing as how he would never come to soccer games always saying he simply he didn’t want to and him having to be guilted into dance recitals as they were only once yearly, I saw he had better use of his time and didn’t go chasing after something so improbable.

Later on my great grandmother started becoming very ill. Naturally Nana told her sisters in Mexico to be aware of her symptoms and to take her to a doctor. She later went down to help and see her mother as well as to give her hope. She ended up coming back to Connecticut a month later after seeing to that her mother had gotten proper medication and treatment for whatever they could. She seemed to be getting better. A year after this her condition quickly became grave. My Nana was on the earliest flight we could find. The day after we had gotten the tickets Abuelita had died. I walked into the dining room and found my Nana crying at the kitchen table. I asked her what was wrong, but she couldn’t manage to form words. Worried, I found my mother and asked her what had happened. She led me to the opposite side of the house and told me what had happened and I started to tear up. Before I could understand completely how quickly it all happened she told me, “Now don’t cry. You can’t cry. Your Nana is crying and she needs you to be strong for her. Don’t think about crying, only about being there for her.” I went back into the dining room and held Nana as she sobbed. Her mother had died at ninety-nine. She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye, none of us did.
Despite the fact that I stayed to myself and didn’t bother anyone it seemed as though others would like to bother me. My father’s side of the family never has been my favorite people. His mother would often have me over her house to stay for the day. At a younger age it was enjoyable, but as time went on I became more aware. She doesn’t speak English well as she and the family emigrated from Puerto Rico and hasn’t picked it up. Because of this what sounded okay in Spanish was more of an insult. She mainly, and a few other members of that side of the family, would often make fun and criticized the way I looked and was. I wasn’t their ideal to say the least, not coming close to the image they had painted for me. I wasn’t tall enough, wasn’t feminine enough, loud enough, vocal enough, and most definitely wasn’t skinny enough for them. Hearing this has altered the way I see things, mainly myself; I realized why you need to tell children that they are creative, good, and beautiful or handsome when they’re young. You need to let them know that it’s alright to be different and it’s acceptable to be your own person. Enduring their constant comments which were often straight to me became a usual thing. I would stand straight, look them in the eye, and listen, never saying a word. I became strong and walled against those emotions in front of others and bottled it up pretending as if it was like hearing nothing at all.

By the age of ten I could tell that my parents would eventually divorce. Knowing this I was able to take an educated guess as to why my father would be coming home at two in the morning. I became my mother’s shoulder to cry on and stopped my father from saying anything to upset her. A year later they announced their divorce and I wasn’t disappointed or upset, it was simply another bridge to cross. It was at this point of where he tried to “reconnect” with his beloved daughter which was strange and seemed like a joke. He tried to “fix” what he thought he broke, but there needs to be something to break in order for it to be broken. Since then he has continue to do so and it seems we never will meet eye to eye.

After he moved out everything seemed peaceful for a few weeks. Then the bills started rolling in. He ended up getting demoted and we were short on money, unable to pay mortgages. With his child support and my mother’s paycheck along with the occasional money from my Nana’s job we were struggling. I wished for more than anything that I could somehow be offered a job so I could help with the funds as I had already given all my money to help with everyday expenses. With that I had nothing left to give besides an ear to listen. I would listen to my mother stress about how she didn’t know what to do and how there were bills left unpaid. The banks started calling the house non-stop to the point where for a while we unplugged the phone. I took care of doing the house chores while Nana was away at work and I tried to make my mother relax. Eventually we took in tenants who still live in our finished basement and their rent helps.

It’s been a few years and the issues with money have only gotten worse. My mother and I are still staying up late trying to figure out what we are going to do when the final eviction notice comes. All she prays for is a winning lotto ticket and to be able to stay in the house until I graduate so I wouldn’t have to change schools. She says soon we are going to pack things away to store as she has a feeling the situation is going to quickly go south. Soon I may have to pack my room. Soon my house may no longer be my safe haven from anxiety and outside stress.

Despite all of the wishes to be rid of the issues I had to take them and make them my own. My age biologically is fifteen. My age mentally must be forty. I was well rested, calm, and carefree once. Now I’m an insomniac with a slew of work, stress, and too many thoughts. I do wish I could have the chance just once to be my own age and to be a stupid kid, but I wouldn’t give up the experience and knowledge I have now. I’d hope that there is a happy medium in there somewhere; I guess it’s my job now to find it.