Perfect Families

(Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Mentions of Physical and Mental Abuse)

My father was a preacher, a man of moderation. My mom was a woman of god, the perfect wife to the perfect husband. Together they had two children, a son and a daughter. A house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, the perfect American family.

No one seemed to notice the cracks under the surface. His flock didn’t smell the booze on my fathers breath as he screamed about their sins. Nor did the neighbors see as my mother crept from unfamiliar men's houses early in the mornings. 

We hid our problems. A poor family, too poor to get me books or the doll I desperately wanted. Still designer items littered mother’s closet floor, tags still on, and the liquor cabinet never ran dry. They always told me I would be better than them or they screamed in my face saying I thought I was.

By the time most girls were getting their first mascara I had become an artist with concealer. Layers of makeup, long sleeves in the summer, and still no one asked me why a seven year old needed foundation. 

“Moderation,”my father told me, then asked for another beer. 

“You can have everything good, my dear girl, but only in small amounts,”my mother whispered as I cried into her sweater. Father had gotten drunk and punched a hole through the T.V.. That was a common enough memory that it became my whole childhood. A whirlwind of yelling and pretending. The perfect family to anyone who didn’t care enough to peer inside our well maintained walls. And no one did. 

From the moment I heard I was going to have a brother I sought to protect him. When he was two he drew a dragon on the walls, knowing what they would do I took the belt for him. By the time he was five he knew to be quiet around them, but we could always be real with each other. 

I know leaving was for the best, but I haven't heard from him since I left, six months ago. I don’t know if it is because he is angry at me or because they told him to stay away from me. I heard what the neighbors whispered as I left for LA.

“Why would she abandon such nice parents,”the neighbor whispered when I loaded my car.

That’s why I came to leave everything my parents wanted for me behind. Moderation became a word never uttered. I made my own mantra.

“A little more couldn’t hurt,” I mumbled as I threw the dice.

“A little more couldn’t hurt,” I slurred as I downed another drink.

“A little more couldn’t hurt,” I whispered into her ear as I took her to my room.

I still repeated those words, even when the dice landed wrong. Even when I crashed down the stairs, even when I woke up in another stranger's bed, wondering how I got there. I chased the moments of before, the seconds between the cards leaving my hand and hitting the table. I wished for the burn as I swallowed another glass. 

When I stumbled through the alley I was in search of another moment of relief. I saw a man waiting at the end and thought I had found it. 

“What are you selling,”I tried my hardest to saunter over to him. He just grunted.

“I asked,”I put my hand on his chest,”What are you selling?”

He seized my wrist,”The more important question is how much do you cost?”

Panicked, I tried to pull my hand from his grasp, but he only tightened his grasp and laughed. 

“I’ll give you a deal,”he pulled a bag of white powder from his pocket,”I’ll give you this,”he shook the packet in my face,”if you give me this,”and pulled me into his body.

That’s how I started selling my body one hit at a time. The money wasn’t bad, but I spent it all on more, more coke, more booze, more chips. When my landlord evicted me for my not so savory behavior most people would think I would’ve realized I needed help, but I kept going. I sold my car for more money to burn.

That is until I woke up and vomited all over the bench I had slept on. A kind lady who I had met on the street took me to the nearest gas station and helped me get a test. Fifteen minutes later I knew I had to get clean. I was pregnant.

I was often asked why I kept the baby when I was in no way capable of raising a kid. I still don’t know why, maybe it was the remnants of christian guilt, maybe it was a need to prove them wrong, maybe it was an entirely insane choice I made for no good reason. None of that changes the fact that I did.

I used the few hundred dollars I had left to find a roommate. They were a kind person at their core. They got me a job at the local grocery store and helped me find a Narcotics Anonymous in the area. I kept clean for all of the pregnancy. I gave birth to a little girl, Daisy, she was perfectly healthy and the realization that I was responsible for a whole person sent me spiraling.

My roommate found me three days later drunk and on something. They took me back to the apartment and cleaned me up. When I finally came out the other side of my high I realized what I had done and started sobbing.

Hearing my commotion my roommate ran into my room and comforted me.

“It’s ok. You are safe, Daisy is safe, everything will be ok,”they whispered this to me as I flung myself into their arms.

“You don’t understand,”I bawled.

“What don’t I understand?”

“I will always be like this. My parents were abusive drunks and so were theirs. The cycle repeats and I don’t want to be like them.”

“You don’t have to let the cycle repeat. You can make the decision to be better.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll help you.”

From that day on I had Wilima to help me keep clean and to raise Daisy with. I never relapsed on the pills again, though I got close many times. I had a few problems with alcohol, it even took me over a month to get back on the wagon once, but I managed. 

Time began to fly each day blurring into the next Daisy seemed to grow before my very eyes. All of that changed when my brother showed up on my doorstep the day after he turned 18.

“Davey.”

“Eva.”

The world seemed to hold its breath for one, two, three seconds, until it broke and I pulled him into a hug.

“It’s been too long,”I whispered,”I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you there, but they never would’ve let me have you.”

He pulled away,”You don’t need to apologize, you did what you had to do.”

Before I could respond Wilima called from the other room,”Eva, who’s at the door?”

“My brother,”I called back before inviting him inside,”Come, sit. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“God, it’s been five years now?”

“Yup, five years.”

That’s when Wilima walked into the living room with Daisy. They placed her on the floor and she wandered over to Davey. 

“Oh my God, do you have a kid?”

“Um, yeah, things were a little ruff for a while after I left. I wasn’t making good decisions, but I did get something good out of it,”I couldn’t meet his eyes, what if he would leave again,”Her name is Daisy, she just turned two last month.”

“Hi, Daisy. I am your uncle, Davey.”

“Hi, we should play,”she handed him her doll.

That’s when I knew everything would be okay. Davey stayed with us for six months while he saved up enough money to find his own apartment. After he left we made sure we saw each other at least once a week.

Life moved on after that. After Daisy started attending preschool, me and Wilima got closer, we would spend afternoons together because they worked mornings and I worked night. 

One day while we binge watched some stupid drama that had just come out Wilima put their hand on my leg. I turned to look at them and we kissed. It just felt so right. They had been the most constant thing in my life for the past four years and I couldn’t imagine life without them. 

From then on we were a family: Wilima, Daisy, Davey, and me. We spent every holiday together and when Davey brought his boyfriend, Alastair, home he became a part of the family.

Eventually I proposed to Wilima. I took them to the beach and we had a picnic and just as the sun began to set I got down on one knee. I know it's cheesy, but sometimes I just want to have that kind of unfettered happiness.

We got married that winter. It was a small ceremony with just my family in attendance. As I walked down the aisle with my brother leading me I realized I had a perfect family. Not the perfect my parents strived for, but a perfect for me.

When I said,”I do,”I meant every last bit of it.