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Chapter One
Painful Reality
Slender fingers wrap around the delicate crystal stem of a wine goblet. Every so often the glass would lift to a pair of full lips, coming away less some of the dark red liquid that filled it. A soft pink smudge marred one edge where the woman's lipstick had worn off. This wasn't her first glass, nor would it be the last.
"Happy Anniversary to me," she says bitterly, taking another sip; the last sip. Slightly trembling fingers lift a nearly empty bottle of Merlo. A splash of the dark liquid sloshes over the rim, plopping onto the upper thigh of her white slacks. She watches the stain slowly spread, leaving a mark that would forever blemish her favorite slacks. "And why not? Everything else in my life is ruined. Why not my favorite pants?"
A slight noise causes her hazel eyes to fixate on the golden oak door that was a mere three feet from the stairs she sat on. Silently, she willed the door to open. She willed that, for once, her husband would remember that tonight was important and choose her over his precious job. The door doesn't open. Instead a rather obese cat with pale orange, almost peach, fur pads across the foyer. It let's out a rather loud meow, twining through her legs. Bending slightly, she uses her free hand to scratch the soft fur, while sipping her wine.
"Look's like it's just us, Peaches." Her voice echoes in the large entry way, adding to her sense of loneliness. Taking another sip of wine, she stares down at the purring cat that lay at her feet through a fine sheen of tears. It wasn't suppose to be this way, her alone and waiting on him. In the beginning it wasn't this way. In the beginning all they had needed was each other. Best friends, lovers, husband and wife. Now, there were to many nights like tonight to count. Nights spent sitting on the stairs watching the front door, waiting for him to come home.
"Am I pathetic or what?" A rueful laugh passes her twisted lips. The cat lets out another loud, woeful meow, as though to agree.
"Mommy?"
A sweet, little girl voice drifts down the stairwell, causing her fingers to tighten even more around the fragile stem of the goblet. Her teeth clench, unclench. "What?" The harshness in her voice doesn't go unnoticed by the almost ten year old girl standing above her.
"When's Daddy coming home?"
She let's out a bitter laugh, lifting the glass to her lips. Another sip. Another wave of self pity fueled by bitterness and anger. "Who knows," she answers, the bitterness carrying over. There had been a time when she could have answered right to the second when 'Daddy' would be home. Now, well now she knew better than to give answers. Especially to the dark haired child standing at the top of the staircase. Lucky girl, she still was able to live in her happy bubble, not aware that 'Daddy' wasn't really her daddy and that he didn't care about them enough to come home.
"Oh." There is a soft little sigh, and the creak of a stair. "Is he at work?"
"Where else would he be?" Pressing her lips into an ugly line, she twists her head to the left, looking up the dark stairs. Only an outline of the thin, youthful body could be seen. A familiar resentment swells up in her. An unwanted child she was forced to pretend to love. She had done it for him, she had taken her ex-husband to court and sued for full custody just for him. She supposed it was her own fault, filling his head like she had with tales of how horrid the ex had been.
"I dunno. Think he'll tuck me in when he comes home?" No if's in her childish vocabulary. Ever the dreamer, Ava always trusted that the man she called father would come home. Ava. He had thought it would be fitting that they name her little girl after the woman she had been when they met. There had been no way to tell him that she still wanted the name for herself. There had been no way to tell him that she felt nothing for the baby girl he thought was a miracle.
"Doesn't he always?" She lifts the glass only to find it empty. Muttering a curse she slams the glass onto the step below the one she sat upon. It took every ounce of will power to not pick it back up, to hurl it across the room. She wouldn't though. Not with Ava watching. She didn't need the little inconvenience running to 'daddy' with tales of mommy's temper tantrum.
"Yeah." Another soft sigh. "Night Mama. Love you."
Rebecca doesn't bother to return the sentiment. The word love never crossed her lips were Ava was concerned. No point in letting the child think she was anything but a mistake. Much the way her marriage to Alex Karev was. It was a painful reality.