I am divided into halves that I did not choose.
I head out the door at 8.45 pm, heart beating faster
than necessary. I have just lost a screaming match.
“Decent girls get home at this time.”
“You are the one who brought me up this way.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. I am turning 70 this year!”
This November, I turned 29. I bought myself a car. But
I am still daddy’s little girl.
“Why must you drive alone? Male company is necessary.
What if you fall into trouble? A man can handle things better.
You should get married. Is there someone, anyone you like?
But I don’t like the friends you go out with every weekend.
They are too modern. They smoke and drink. They expect you
to stay late nights and over nights. No one marries people like
that. He must not be one of them.”
“But they are my friends.”
“You don’t understand.”
I am a free woman, I convince myself. Yet every sip of vodka
is consumed with a slice of guilt. Every late night out is punctuated
with eyes darting to the watch. Time, is always running out.
“Who goes home at 10 man?” I do.
I am divided into halves, but I’d rather that I wasn’t.