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for the love of a daughter | ( mariah series )
Jan 27, 2019 17:39:06 GMT -5
Post by d4 tati pelotte [azalea] on Jan 27, 2019 17:39:06 GMT -5
MARIAH ✧ MAC |
A dying wish is only a wish at the end of the day, but it's a dying one. One last chance to fulfil some sort of desire, to achieve something that has always been dreamt of, to carry out the seemingly impossible when you're in a position of possible death.
Reading out my father's speech had gone, as I thought, to plan. Coming through the door and slamming my tatty old leather messenger bag into a slump by the door frame, I'm welcomed by his voice. The floorboards carry it to me and my first thought is that he's actually about to kick the bucket. Final curtains, show is over—but no—I go into the living room doubling as a bedroom and find him smiling ear to ear. The notepad on the end table beside him only has a small sketch of a middle-aged woman with a flower in her hair. I immediately recognise her as my mother.
I take a seat beside him and take his hand into mine, looking at him as if the future is in the palm of our hands. "You think I did a good job? You're proud of me?" I ask him. His reply is a simple but knowing nod, an acknowledgement of my effort and partial triumph earlier in the day. It was his triumph, really, his words are what made people believe that Eight could be bigger, better. I smile back when he gives a nod, knowing that even if when all I said and done and I'm not Mayor, I won over the person who matters the most.
For now, at least.
Reading out my father's speech had gone, as I thought, to plan. Coming through the door and slamming my tatty old leather messenger bag into a slump by the door frame, I'm welcomed by his voice. The floorboards carry it to me and my first thought is that he's actually about to kick the bucket. Final curtains, show is over—but no—I go into the living room doubling as a bedroom and find him smiling ear to ear. The notepad on the end table beside him only has a small sketch of a middle-aged woman with a flower in her hair. I immediately recognise her as my mother.
I take a seat beside him and take his hand into mine, looking at him as if the future is in the palm of our hands. "You think I did a good job? You're proud of me?" I ask him. His reply is a simple but knowing nod, an acknowledgement of my effort and partial triumph earlier in the day. It was his triumph, really, his words are what made people believe that Eight could be bigger, better. I smile back when he gives a nod, knowing that even if when all I said and done and I'm not Mayor, I won over the person who matters the most.
For now, at least.
