Motherless

My father resurfaced only after my mother died and decided that he should be back in Chicago with me. He had spent the majority of my childhood living a life on the east coast that I had, and still have, no clue about. As my memory serves it, I can count on one hand the number of times I saw him once my parents split. Once was at the age of four, I still remember it like yesterday. He propped me up on a pillow in his lap behind the wheel of his car, and he let me steer, while he pushed the gas pedal. We rode down the middle of our block, and I felt on top of the world. There in that car he made promises to me; promises that would on the surface soon be forgotten but still remain planted in my sub-conscious. My daddy told me that him and my mother were separating, but he would still come to see me. He told me that he would visit and that he wouldn’t leave me. As a little girl, innocent of the world and all the problems that came along with being a daddy-less daughter, I believed him. I had no reason not to—until he showed me. Granted, there were times when we would talk on the phone, but those memories soon faded, and the connection between us was lost. He didn’t come back for his little girl.