I’m sorry I broke it. My promise. I didn’t want to, but I had to.
I’d promised that wouldn’t fall in love again. That it’d be you who I’d always love. I broke it. No apologies can make up for this, but at the same time, I feel no guilt. I betrayed you, and yet I’m not disturbed. I remember when I first saw you. Your face screwed up with fury as you put a protective hand over the child that was being beaten by his caretaker. You yelled at the man for beating up a little kid who was barely over four years old. As I watched you from a corner, I couldn’t help but stare. The following week, I saw you at the diner. Your hair was messy and you were trying to make a fuss over the wrong topping on your pizza. Not many would find that sight appealing. I did. I turned a second time to look at the girl, trying to look angry, but laughing in the process. I saw the bright smile when the pizza you wanted was delivered.
I gathered the courage to talk to you. And that’s probably the best thing I’ve done so far. I haven’t regretted it once. It was easy to talk to you and, for a stammerer, I didn’t stammer once.
I remember our first date. I waited nervously at the cozy little restaurant we’d picked. After an impatient fifteen minutes, you showed up. When I saw you that day, I knew I’d met the one. Unlike most other girls who would deck themselves up for a first date, you had done the complete opposite. Donning a shirt and ripped jeans paired with converse, you looked everything like the messy tomboy you were. You didn’t try to be anyone else. That’s what got me. With your hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and that outfit, you looked cute, and I couldn’t stop gawking. We spoke easily, and though I wanted to, I didn’t kiss you.
Like I said, I knew I’d found the one. And it was proved when we took our wedding vows three years later. It wasn’t a hard marriage. We compromised and moulded into each other.
I remember your face when you found out that you’re pregnant. If possible, you looked more beautiful than ever. I still remember when six months later, you woke up with a blinding pain in your lower back. The results said that you had a tiny tumor, that if operated, would kill the baby. And if left untouched, would eventually turn malignant. You insisted that you wanted the child. I persisted that I wanted you. As always, you won.
And then, you were gone. You slipped away like the sand from one’s palm. You left behind a child and didn’t think once about yourself. How could I accept her? The one who’d taken away my reason to live, who’d taken you away?
When the nurse dropped the little bundle that was my daughter into my arms, I saw her for the first time since she was born. It had been a week and I hadn’t been able to look at her without hating her. I looked into those big blue eyes that stared up at me. Your eyes. She was you, a tiny replica. Her little nose, her mouth, her giggle. It all reminded me of you.
And I fell in love. I fell in love with out little baby girl. I promised to never love again, but I did. And this time, I ain’t letting her go.
© Samantha, The Storytellers.