As a young girl, I dreamt of the day I would get married. I had it all planned out. White roses would adorn each table along with handwritten place settings. Silverware with delicate, gold leafing would rest upon only the finest filet mignon. My dress would be white, covered in lace, held together with rhinestones and delicate beading. Walking down the aisle, holding onto my father’s arm, I would catch the glances of family and friends, acknowledging them with a muted smile and nod. Looking up at my future husband, I would see tears of happiness welling in his eyes.
Jacob didn’t cry.
I didn’t have the reception of my dreams. I didn’t have a reception at all. My father refused to even show up. My mother cried, but not because she was overwhelmed with happiness. None of my friends came. Who wants to see a 4-month pregnant woman in an off-white dress?
As a young girl, I dreamt of the day I would have my first child. I had it all planned out. My husband and I would adorningly nurture the baby, cataloguing its very development with journals and photographs. He would be a well-behaved child, roughhousing with our German shepherd, Sam, as the pot roast cooled on the stovetop. My adoring husband, reading the daily paper after a long day of work, child in lap, gently patting his head.
I never picture my life like this. Two and a half years later, staring at the ocean. My son and I. Alone. No father, no husband. No friends. Why would I have friends? Look at me. A 22-year-old mother of 1 with prematurely graying hair and wrinkles from stress, from worry, from disappointment. Even though the beach is crowded this Labor Day weekend, no one will come near enough me to be roped into conversation. No one is far enough away to ignore the whispering, however.
Daniel is oblivious to it, though, as any child should. He’s too young to understand not all families consist of one parent. He’s too young to understand that he shouldn’t be growing up sleeping in his own mother’s childhood bedroom, repainted a unassuming white. He’s too young to understand that he doesn’t have friends because the other boy’s mother don’t want their children or themselves to be associated with us.
Wading and splashing in the water alongside his stout, overweight Boston Terrier, Grape, things get chaotic. Grape scratches Daniel’s face. Tears ensue. If only my tears were the result of physical pain. Something that can be fixed with a kiss and a juice-box.
We attempt to build a sandcastle but the tide keeps washing away the foundation. We try to capture sand-crabs but they all slip through the spaces in my fingers.
“Why does everything keep getting ruined?”
“I don’t know, Sweetheart.”
As the day drones on more and more people leave, or at least move farther and farther away. Our shadows become greater and farther and farther away. Daniel spends the next 30 minutes admiring the larger version of himself. He is so amused, I’ve never seen him so happy. Would he be as happy if he knows he ruined my life?
