loving but busy-he didn't have a lot of time for her. And when she had me, he always cited his work as an excuse for them not to get marr

awful. My mom was heartbroken, but his wife reached out to us later to tell us that he had left instructions for us in his will-well, ins

re on our own. To be honest, I barely remember my father. He wasn't a constant in my life, so I can't say I grieved him like I was supposed to. I'm sure if my mother had thought really hard about it, she might have realized

s. They didn't come to the fu

-green eyes from my dad. She's always covered in paint and has her head in the clouds. Some days, I feel more like the mother in our relationship than the child. She just radiat

are. Like when she gets so into her art that I cease to

owed freely when we were alone, and in the company of our mothers, we remained cordial. After he left, my mother went back to painting, saying she was on the brink of a masterpiece. I do

udy. If I had nothing better to do, I c

ied, I cooked, I cleaned, I mis

ut a party that night. She's also a childhood friend and doesn't go to my school, so I barel

ls up in front of my house b

eyebrows. She believes we're secretly in

in my chest, I say, "H

rea

say, rolli

and close after everyone else. Are you sure it's not a cult

ion raising you guys

l," I say, shoving he

ss eye candy, though." She

e the worst

small house party, and when we get there, I real

d there are unconscious people littered in f

nd jeans and a black turtleneck crop top. Aria looks sultry-her dark locks in silky waves, a dark red dress hugging her curves,

me!" I screec

he gives me a sheepish look, and I forgive her instant

the party-some jock at her school named Chris-and thinking that I wish

oss the makeshift dance floor, grabbing my hips, and dancing with me. I

round, knowing they would never

home, I replay the scene in m

pretending they're h