Jasmine
I hated my life. I had no friends. My mom died when I was a baby, and my dad seemed to blame me for that. I had a family who supported me and consolated for my Dad's neglect. But it still didn't feel the same as having a loving relationship with my parents. I did well at school, which was another positive aspect, I guess.
Whenever I asked my father about my mom, his response would either be,
"Ask your grandma," or "Why do you want to know?" or he would ignore me and leave the room. I often chose to stay at my Grandma and Grandpa's house instead of staying at home with Dad.
Ever since my mother died, Grandma Esme mostly raised me, as my father was grieving Mom intensely. She was angry at him for concentrating more on his dead wife than his baby daughter.
Grandma would tell me vague stories of my Mom when she was my age, and I was fascinated to learn more about her. I asked to see a picture of her, and she showed me some pictures of her the year before she died. I gazed in awe at the beautiful woman smiling in the photo. Her long black hair fell to just below her shoulders. I had clearly inherited her hair colour, but my hair was curly, like my dad's. Her deep blue eyes resembled mine, but everyone says my eyes were the exact shape of my father's.
"You look so much like your mom, Jasmine," Grandma always said to me, but then she'd sigh, "But Alice was always smiling, and I hate seeing you so upset, honey."
I hated being upset all the time. According to everyone at school, I was a freak with a dead mother and a strict teacher for a father. The strict teacher who barely talked to me in class, let alone at home.
He was my form tutor, and I've always been suspicious that Grandma had asked to have me put in my Dad's class so we could bond, which never happened.
Every other teacher I had always made an effort to be nice to me and look after me. In an attempt to be kind, my music teacher had nominated me to sing for a state singing contest.
I hated singing in front of an audience. My music class was bad enough, but I'd have to stand on a stage in front of a panel of judges, and at least 50 sets of parents. I was one in fifty entrants, who were all perfectly confident and ready to perform.
Dad had seemed pretty impressed by my opportunity.
"Wow," he had said, "That's...that's really great, Jasmine."
He even smiled, which was a rare sight on my father. I knew I had done good.
"I don't know if I want to do it, Dad," I mumbled, "I don't really like singing in front of an audience."
"What are you talking about, Jasmine?" Dad glared, "You're talented, don't waste this! Your Mom would have snapped up the chance, no matter how scared she was."
I looked at the floor, hurt and annoyed by Dad's repetitive comparisons to my mother to bring me down. I nodded and sighed.
"I'll do it," I stated, "But only if you come to watch."
Dad rolled his eyes, "You're 14, Jasmine. You're old enough to go without me holding your hand. Your music teacher will go, and I'm sure Esme will go."
"Fine," I murmured, and shut myself in my room as always.