“I remember his eyes. They are just like mine. Every time I look in the mirror I see him. I try not to look at my self too much.”
― Ida Løkås
“Enough Jenna! It’s just done ok? Stop it,” Jenna’s mother clutched her bathrobe with one hand, the other balled into a fist at her side.
She was shaking with anger now, the towel wrapped around her head threatened to fall down. Everything was in fact threatening to fall down. The house fell silent for a moment and suddenly a crevice seemed to split open the tiniest bit in the space between Jenna and her mother.
Catherine was barely twenty-eight but with three children and a divorce to handle with an idiot while also starting a new marriage to a man eons better, she felt more like she was twenty-eight going on fifty.
Jenna stared past her mother at the couch with its dark textured pattern and fought desperately not to let even a single tear well up in her eyes. She hated crying. Especially over the topic at hand. It hurt both ways and a frustrated knot in her stomach reminded her of that fact constantly.
“It’s just that…” the words wouldn’t come easily, another side effect of being only eight years old with limited vocabulary skills to call upon, “He’s my dad. I don’t want to call someone else that. Doesn’t seem fair.”