Disclaimer: I do not think that I am Jane Austen, unless I am having a really out of body experience that has transported me decades to the seat that I am sitting in now.

TWO – Worn Out Nike Sneakers

My father, Joseph Bennet, loved his Nike sneakers. Every morning he would wake up, put them on and head out of the door to work. But never before greeting us with a kiss and a hug – 'us' being my mother and me – because we would not see him for the rest of the day (or night) because he loved work. He was the owner on Bennet and Co. A conglomerate that had acquired plenty of sponsors and profit.

I was raised a good girl. Ok, a slightly good girl with a mischievous streak, but I was not raised spoilt. I would get what I wanted, yes, but I accepted it with humility and deep gratitude. My mother taught me a long time ago that I was fortunate and that I should help others be like me. So I went to a private, but not too snobbish, school; I had tutoring classes outside of school and made friends there. To me, and the rest of my family, there was no class differences.

At the age of nine, my mother died. She died trying save a little girl from being run over by a speeding car. There was brief period of time where my father did not do anything – almost catatonic I would say; a time where I stayed at home, smelling the sheets that reminded me of my absent mother – sheets that smelt like roses and fresh air. However, as much as I'd hate to admit it, life went on. My father woke up to no food in the pantry because we had dismissed the staff that did that; and I woke up to the realisation that no matter how much I cried for her, screamed out for her, the pain of the sudden loss would always be too great . It was a pain that would go away and then hit me with a force that knocks me over and keeps me breathless.

A few long months after my mother's death, my father and I packed our things and moved. We moved from sunny California to busy New York. Though he had missed many months of work, his business was doing better than ever – what with the disgusting publicity the death of my mother had aroused.

Being always close to my father, we grew closer over the next couple years following those events. Every second Thursday, my father and I would go on McDonald's run and order extra food and then give it out to random people at the park. We always had this one person who would always be there. An old happy man that would be feeding ducks. Sometimes, my father and I would just watch him until he was picked up by his niece, nephew, grandchild or attendant – he was never picked up by his direct family. My father once said, "Honey, don't ever leave me alone."

"Not a chance, old man. I'll miss you too much." I said

"I feel so loved right now."

"That right, father. You are. Now, let's run amuck in this quite place and give fatty foods to people who need to get fat."

"That sounds like a great idea, B1"

"I thought so too, B2"

Since starting in a new school at the age of nine, the transition from primary school to middle school to high school was not bad at all. I kept friends and we had fun. They knew about my past – almost all of the people in New York knew about it, it happened here.

It was one morning when I just had turned thirteen that my father said to me, "Honey, you are so much like your mother. She would, she is, very proud of you. I know it."

I ran away and cried all the tears I thought had ran out. I cried for the miraculous recovery my father made over my mother's death. I cried for the strenuous activity I knew that took a toll on his wellbeing and I cried for the fact that I did not know whether to be happy that I resembled my mother that I dearly loved or if I should be in utter despair about being like a person who was taken away from you.

My father knew why I was crying – it was like we could read each other's thoughts. He found me a few hours later at the park, watching Duck Man feed his ducks. He just sat down on that cold, icy bench while I leaned my head on his comforting shoulder, staying like that until we heard my stomach grumble in protest.

We never spoke of what happened at the park. We just had an understanding that we both were working very hard on dealing with the pain. We moved on, so to speak.

As I grew from a teeny bopper to a teen, my character was said to be strong, highly independent and a little too playful – words from my father – and some people would say that we moved on from life, that we can live without my mother. We didn't, we just learnt to live with the pain that came in waves, with the pain that saw us quiet at the dinner table while Mr and Mrs Gardiner, their butler and housekeeper, tended to the needs of their employer and his lovely daughter.

))}-^-

Everything changed, though, a week before my sixteenth birthday. My father and I drove to a restaurant that was situated just on the outskirts of the city. With me sitting in the passenger seat, my father could hardly concentrate on the road. But, being the responsible daughter that I was, I sat still and napped for a few minutes until I felt my father's arms wrap around me. It felt so warm and so right that I didn't realise that he had protected me from something that he couldn't, or refused to, protect himself from. An eight wheeler truck collided head on, into my father's Bentley. We were in front of the McDonalds that we went to on our McDonalds runs. It hurt. No words, or the lack of my limited vocabulary, can describe the pain of knowing that my father protected me and killed himself in the process.

))}-^-

I woke up to a blue-grey light, a smell of sterilised products and an annoying beeping noise. Mrs Gardiner, my housekeeper, was there, soothing me and telling me that I would get through this. She was the one that held me tightly, silently crying for the death of my sweet, adorable father and the loneliness I would now have to face.

))}-^-

So now, standing on the green plush lawn that would accompany my father's body for the rest of eternity, I silently wept. On my sixteenth birthday, I wept for my father and my mother as they left me alone. On my sweet sixteenth birthday, I never felt so abandoned. On that day, I shut my heart out to the rest of the world, held my head up high and opposed anyone that would hurt good people. It was then that I was determined to make things right, for me and for those I love and loved.