Secondhand Bastard

   Childhood for most is a 50/50 chance of remembering anything that isn't a story. I often tried to get a story from Hailey, but you can only ask her about something once. Anytime after the first is too much for her and she ends up telling you a conflicting tale. Funny enough, the story I remember most is one that I have yet to find reason to after twenty years of asking. On my left ear, I have a tear from an earring that had been ripped out. I have no recollection of this incident, but I do have the worlds most difficult storyteller. My mother usually tells me about the tear with hesitation, stating that Laura, my grandmother, had everything to do with it... "Your grandmother likes to blame me" or "It wasn't my fault", always being her opening when I ask. She did a lot of beating around the bush and telling me about all the things that Nana had ever done. So, being the curious child I was, I asked the accused. I often ask about things more than once, checking to make sure that they aren't lying to me. I learned that with anything my mother approached with hesitation, was false or that she was at fault. Nana's story always remained the same; Hailey put hoops in my ears before I could even walk, leading to infection and me ripping them out. The words 'infection', 'hoops', and 'ripping' always ended up in my mothers story, but never at any blame to herself, or to carelessness. Nana being horrible one way or another, was always to blame. I used this experience growing up, as a rule of thumb. Hailey liked to say she learned to be independent at a young age due to my birth, that everything was more difficult now. She moved out of the house, living with friends and no longer having obligations to go to high school because dropping out was "the right choice". But it was years later that I learned how heavily she still relied on my grandparents, Nana often having to take me to work with her because she worried for my wellbeing at Hailey's house. Laura told me about the countless times that she had found me laying on the floor, crying for attention as my mother and her friends were locked in her room. At that point in time, drugs were a likely addiction to blame, but I think that my mother was more addicted to the feeling of 'unconditional love' from anyone or anything, she could find it from. My grandmother was the first one to realize this, and it scared her.