Designed to be Alone

Prologue

Growing up, I've loved the way that New York city looked. The lights. The glamorous feel it gave. The feeling that it carried that anyone could be anything there. And for some it will always hold that magic. It did for me until summer of 1999. I was six. And my mother and I had gone on a vacation. My parents were overly happy and madly in love. Or so it seemed.

My mother that summer, had taken me with her while my father was away on business in Japan, trying to make a deal with one of the highest money grossing companies of the year. While my mother took me to evening parties for a month.

The trip started out in pure thoughts, to show me the good side of New York. The lavish life and how beautiful it could be. Watching musicals on Broadway, seeing lady liberty and greeting her.

But as the trip continued, we returned to a small club. Of course, it was for those of higher social status. Specifically those that hosts parties and might expect children to join their parents. My mother, that night, took me to a fundraiser. Raising money for charity work for homeless mother's in need. But all through the night, she kept close to one man.

David Greene. His family was old money and he worked in stocks.

He was close to my mother, the 25 year old man giving very touchy attention to a woman who was 41 years old with a six year old child holding her hand. She, through the night, drank several glasses and laughed. I'd never seen her so happy in my very short life.

And as the night drew out longer, the more close they got. We eventually left and he gave us a ride. I fell asleep in the car.

The next morning, I had woken up to see my mother, cooking breakfast in the penthouse kitchen in his shirt from the night before, shorts on underneath. I saw him shirtless and only in boxers appear from the fridge with orange juice in his hand. He rubbed my head, bid me good morning, and ate with us.

At the time, I was blind to what was going on. But as the visit went on, I began to see and understand. Seeing them express their feelings the same way I had seen my parents.

After our vaction-before getting on the jet back home-my mother made me promise not to say a word to my father. I agreed. Throughout the next two years, we vacationed in New York. And every time, she saw him.

In 2001, he still worked in stocks.

We were home, I was home schooled by a paid tutor, when the plane crashed in the towers.

I remember my mother crying and panicking as she tried to call him. It was later confirmed that week that he was there when the crash took place. And he lost his life.

It was only two weeks later that my mother filed for divorce and left my dad, not getting a single penny he had. She didn't want it. She wanted that lavish life gone. To erase every memory of David so she wouldn't have to mourn.

I truly believe that my mother loved him. And I believe that he loved her. So from the time I was eight, I had been in public school. I visited my father every weekend and stayed all summer with him.

By the time I turned eight-teen, I asked my father if he knew of the affair.

"Yes, I knew. But I didn't mind."

"What? But that was your wife. How could you not care?"

"I hadn't made your mother happy in a long time. Of course your mother loved me and I loved her. She just loved him more. And I could live with that. She'd be so much happier after those trips. And seeing her smile and have a good time-even if it wasn't because of me-made me ecstatic. She still came home at the end of the day. And she confessed when we divorced. I told her the same thing I'm telling you. I know her heart belonged to me. But I also know that her heart, body, and soul belonged to David. And I could live with that." He said, turning back to his newspaper.

My mother passed when I turned 9. Overdose of pharmaceutical sleeping pills; suicide. I had lived with my father after, staying in public school like my mother wanted.

Ever since, I've had this.... difficult relationship with New York. The place that held many spectacular memories with my mother. But a place that had also pulled my mom's heart strings and twisted them into a complicated mess. A place that held the burial of my mother's lover. And a place that held too many memories of someone she couldn't bear to live without. 2002 was our last vacation together in New York.

It lasted three days.

One to arrive.
Two to visit his family and grave.
Three to leave.

Why am I mentioning this?

Because, me and my lovely boyfriend are visiting this week. And we're staying in the same penthouse.