His Flower [DISCONTINUED]

17: My Parents

tw: mention of depression, suicide

• • •

"Okay," Romano concernedly began. "What about your parents?"

"I don't even know where to begin," I humorlessly chuckled. "Let's start with my father. Well I'd say a lot, except I've never actually met him."

Lily winced. "Why not?"

"My dad passed away a couple months before I was born. He was a firefighter–died on duty, saving other people. It was honestly a selfless way to go. I only know about him through stories and pictures. Jo, my aunt, says I'm a lot like him."

"Rose, I'm so sorry," Romano sadly comforted. "If he was anything like you, then I'm sure he was amazing."

I softly smiled and nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I would do just about anything to meet him, but it's not possible. My mom, she took it the hardest. Her and dad had been married for a few years, trying for a baby. After she got pregnant with me, they were so close to their happy ending, but then he died. She became depressed, and without even meaning to, I became a constant reminder of her dead husband."

"No," Lily covered her mouth in shock.

I grimaced and continued. "My mom was present though. Even through her depression, she attempted to give me a semi-normal childhood. I'll always love her for that."

There was a bittersweet smile on my face. It was true. My mother tried her best to make the most out of a bad situation and I was endlessly grateful.

"If you don't mind me asking," Romano reluctantly began, "where's your mom now?"

"She's dead."

Lily and Ro gasped in sync at my short response. I decided to give a little more context.

"She killed herself... in front of me," I revealed.

They were mortified.

"What?" Lily gasped. "What do you mean in front of you?"

I took a shaky breath. With distant eyes, I recounted the day my mom had committed suicide in front of me.

• • •

Ten years ago

The street was silent and the winter air nipped at my skin. My tiny fingers were numb by now, and every time I exhaled, a white cloud formed in front of me. Impatiently fiddling with my Barbie doll, I glanced up at my mother. We'd been standing in front of this bridge for at least an hour.

"Mommy, let's go home. I'm hungry!" I tugged at her hand.

"Just a couple more minutes, my love," Mommy said, her voice cracking.

She looked up at the gray sky almost thoughtfully, but I couldn't figure out what was running through her mind. Nothing about my mom was making sense. She was acting stranger than usual. Even though I was only six years old, I knew well enough to question my mother's odd behavior.

"Mommy, why are you crying?" I asked in confusion.

She ignored my question as if willing me to go away, but I continued staring at her. Knotted blonde hair, dark eye bags, pale skin–she looked miserable, especially with those tears streaming down her face.