It was a saturday. A lonely rainy saturday. The bottle she drank from was almost empty, and the child who grew inside her was not yet ready for what was to come. It was her wedding day. She sat in the hotel room with her sister, who had encouraged her to take that sip of vodka. She knew better not to marry him. But her child needed a father.
4 years later:
He was on the couch, it was around his 6th beer. The child was around 3 and a half. The child was frightened by the way her father drank, but she did not know any different. This day he was depressed, in fact most days he was depressed. The only cure he had was to play with the little girl, but he did not have the momentum to rise from the couch. She was out at her art gallery, painting her depression away. She had not wanted to stay near him, as he lingered on the couch sipping his beer. He was sad. She was sad. The child was not affected.
13 years later: The child was no longer a child, she was a young lady. But the years of beer sipping that her father did and the avoidance of her two parents, had stayed with her throughout her childhood. The constant arguments. The elaborate tears her mother shed. But the young lady had a crack in her heart. She did not resent her mother. She did not resent her father. But she resented herself, for being born.