The Other "Woman"

I remember the day I first met you, when Daddy

Brought you to my mother’s house, all dressed in red.

"Always wanted a daughter, call me Mommy," you said,

Just barely three months since my mother was dead.

I’d have called you "Bitch" if I’d known that word,

But I didn’t, so all I could call you was all that I had.

You pushed me away from the start, and called me
names, like Lazy and Stupid and Always-in-the-Way.

I might have known why if I were older than nine,

But all I knew was that no matter how hard I tried,

I never measured up to the daughter you never had.
I couldn't be her because, just look, I was just bad.

Five years into it, one night you screamed that you'd had it.
You cleaned out your closets and packed up your bags.

Shouting harsh words, you stormed out with all of your stuff.

The truck came two days later and took all of ours.

You left us two beds and a television, two lawn

Chairs, two tray tables, our place to eat dinner at night.

Couple weeks later, the sheriff came to our house.

I was home alone after school, and I opened the door.

“Your daddy here, girl?” he asked me, puffing his chest out.

“No, sir.” He’s at work until six.”  He gave me some papers.

“Tell your daddy he’s been served."  He barked loudly.
"Now don’t you forget.  You hear me, girl?”

Back then, all I knew was that you were divorcing us,

Me and my daddy, and somehow it was all my fault.

You actually said so in the papers you filed. 

 “Cruel and unusual,” you called me, “a terrible child.
No marriage could work with her in the house."  

Back then, all I knew was that somehow I'd failed.  

Today I know better, now that I'm grown.
Today I know I was OK; it was you who was
Lacking in most everything but jealousy of a child.

My only sin was being that other woman, daughter.

And today I know. Oh, yes, I sure do.

Today I know exactly what I should call you.

Bitch.

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Written for One Shot Wednesday.