I'm coming home, daddy!

---"Dear diary,
I never want to see him ever again. I hate him; I hate him with a passion! Of all the people in my life, I never thought even my own father would turn on me. I hate that fucking bastard and all his fucking liquor. The damned alcoholic couldn't give two shits for me, he made that clear when he practically threw me out of the house. We never really got along, did we? Not that I can recall. He was always too tough on me over my grades and my responsibilities, and now that I'm a high school drop out I am leaving home, no thanks to my dearest father who got drunk and fought with me. I hate him, and now I'm gone. He'll never have to see me again. Rachelle Davis"---1

That was the day I left home; I moved in with my boyfriend, Greg Brale. Greg was possessive, but sweet and definitely hot; he had light brunette hair and hazel eyes that held yours in an intent gaze. He was older, 22, and had a job. He could support both of us, especially since I was only 17. He said he loved me, and I believed him. He said my father was a good for nothing ass hole that deserved death, and I agreed with him. He said he'd never lie to me, but he did.2

He was at work and I was looking for a jacket in his closet, because mine was dirty and his wasn't. When I pulled the navy blue material of the denim jacket off the top shelf, a small shoe box fell down with it, and envelopes went flying everywhere. I sighed and began picking up the dusty envelopes, but when I picked one up, it was addressed to me. I dug through the pile of old yellowed envelopes; they were all for me! When I opened the first envelope I read:3

---"Dear Rachelle,
I'm sorry! I never meant what I said. Why won't you respond to any of my letters, Ray? I stopped drinking and your mother and I haven't fought in months. I love you. Please come home!
Love,
Dad"---4

I dug through them reading the letters of apologies, love, and regrets, then placed them all back in the box and moved over to my drawers, where I had a framed picture of me and my dear parents. My pointer fingers traced over the smooth glass, that protected the picture, framed in elaborate sterling silver. I was still a young child in the picture, holding onto my mother. My black hair was tied back and we were all smiling. I wore a pink shirt with frills at the end of the long sleeves. My mothers beautiful face had a kind of glow to it, as her eyes looked ahead with love for her family. She wore a slight bit of make up in the picture: lip gloss, eye liner, and some cover up along with a gray sweater and white shirt under it. She had silver earring and long black hair, just like my own. My father had a darker skin tone, but only slightly, and very dark brown hair. He wore glasses and a button up shirt. He smiled, exposing his teeth, as we all were. We all looked happy, and a yearned to fix the void between us now. Tears formed in my eyes and fell onto the glass. Suddenly my anger and hate for my father was aimed towards Greg. I quickly glanced at the door. I wanted to go home; I wanted to make amends with my father. I gathered the box and put my framed picture in, before leaving the home and forever leaving my boyfriend. I knew he would be angry at me, very angry, but I wanted to see my father and mother once again. Seven years later, I was going to apologize.5

As I boarded the subway, I looked at the picture intently. Watching it, not even realizing the vehicle was moving until the ding it made when it came to a halt sounded. I stood up apathetically, still uncertain about what I was going to do, maybe even nervous, or perhaps it was excitement. I moved down the familiar streets, flashbacks of my childhood at every corner. When I finally stopped, I turned to face the house. It was an old brick building, made up of two floors, with a beautiful garden of multicolored flowers surrounding a bird bath. The lawn was cut and the yard and porch clean, as I had remembered it. My hand reached for the bell, and I hesitated before ringing it. Finally my mother answered and the look on her face was so utterly astounded, I couldn't describe it to you. She suddenly was in tears and embracing me. I felt as if I were in some kind of dream, like I wasn't really there at all. It felt so strange yet so familiar, until I felt the oddness of something lacking.6

"Where's... dad?" I asked suddenly.7

She looked saddened suddenly, "You never received the paper?" she asked.8

"What paper? Greg was hiding my mail from me... What's wrong?!" I felt something was wrong, I sensed it.9

"Your... father died almost 2 years after you left... He had a heart attack, Rachelle..."10

I cried that night, we both cried, and I stayed with my mother, vowed to never leave her alone again. I guess the real asshole here, was me... It was always me... I know he was only looking out for my best interest when we had that fight.... I was being dumb, I realize now. I found my way to his grave, crying and begging for his forgiveness. I missed him and I would never get to say I was sorry. And so... there at his grave.. I left a letter...11

---"I'm coming home daddy! I missed you and I love you too! I love you more than you know and I'm so sorry! You were right; you were always right! Dad, I just wanted to say I'm sorry and I'm coming home. I'm going to see you again and when I do, you better have a hug ready for me! Daddy I love you so much! I'm coming home daddy... I'm coming home...12

Your little girl,13

Rachelle"---