The sound of your voice irritates me.

And the fact that you talk to me in your baby voice as if I were 3 instead of 23 infuriates me. I mean, you don’t even know what to say to me or know my favorite color for God’s sake. Really, you don’t know me at all.

I never understood why it was so hard for you to make time. You’d think since I was your only child you would. Maybe if I was money that could’ve changed, because that’s what you spent your time chasing. The hustler, the provider, the entrepreneur who never worked for “the man” a day in his life. And as I laugh to myself, it’s your fault that I’m attracted to the men that I’m attracted to. The hustlers. The movers & the shakers. If you weren’t good for anything else, that, you were.

But, the other day when you called, wasn’t like our normal phone calls.”How’s the new job ?” you asked, as you proceeded to step outside. You broke down and cried.

You explained to me you were dealing with a mental illness. What? A mental illness? Not my daddy, the man I knew. My heart wasn’t ready; this was too much to comprehend. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were just fine. I mean you sounded the same. But, it was much deeper than that.

After I hung up the phone with you, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t help but to think of all the wrong and crooked things that you’ve done to people like selling cars that break down as soon as they leave your car lot and how all of that was finally catching up to you.

Momma use to always say, “he may have all those material things, but at least I have a peace of mind and can sleep at night”, she’d rather have her sanity. And ironically ,15 years later, that’s something that you literally no longer have…

Courtnee