THE TRUE STORY

JACKIE

Un patito, un patito / Él no tenía nada amigo / "Da me un beso" / Dijo el patito / "Y todo estará bien." A ducking, just one / with no friends; oh, none / cries "Give me a kiss / and all will be well!" / one little duckling / all by himself… Un patito, solo uno…

I woke up humming to this lullaby. It was only after I had gotten out of bed, brushed my hair, and washed my face, when it pierced me like a dart to the heart, carrying with it the throbbing pain of nostalgia. You see, my dad used to sing me this song.

Weird isn't it? Not the part about me remembering the song, I mean - although, albeit, I hadn't thought about it in years, I almost had forgotten the rhymes. I mean the part about my father singing me a lullaby. Oh, I know; on TV they always have "Mother lulling her little baby-girl to sleep as she strokes her precious hair, and whispers, I love you, as she creeps softly and silently once she realizes her 'baby girl' is asleep." I don't know where they based this story, but they certainly weren't talking about my family.

In my family, Dad was the one doing all the singing, and whispering "I love you, hija," as he crept gently out of my room once he saw my eyes drooping ever so slightly. He had a voice like liquid gold, like the babbling rivers, like… like Dad. I felt another pierce. God, how I missed him! My eyes pricking, and before I knew it, tears started flowing just like the babbling rivers I was just thinking of.

It wasn't until Mom called me from downstairs to get moving that I dabbed my eyes, and gave a short laugh on how it would ruin my mascara (which I had taken to wearing since I thought I looked okay in it), in a pathetic attempt to cheer myself up before breakfast.

I dashed down the stairs, and caught the toast just as it popped up. Mom was making scrambled eggs. I went over and pecked a customary "good morning" kiss. "Hey, Mom."

"Sit down, and get your breakfast, Jackie," she said, and then turned around only to find me staring, not at my plate, eating, but instead out the window.

"What's the matter, mija?"

"Nothing, I'm just… mami," I asked, very cautiously approaching my question. "Do you hate daddy for leaving us the way he did?"

My mom, who was probably expecting me to say something along the lines of, "I have a pop quiz today that I didn't study for; can I stay home? (the answer obviously being no)" was startled for a moment, and had to pause and think about what I just asked her.

Dread started creeping over me, until I felt like I was about to hurl, but my mom said slowly, but firmly, "No, I do not hate your father, sweetheart. I forgive him, because even though he left us, he was never cruel or anything. He was a good man, hija. And someday, you'll come to learn, that the best memories overshadow what ill we might want to be harboring.

"Of course sometimes just the opposite happens too," she remarked as an afterthought.

"I don't even remember him!" I spat, crying out the thought that was going through my head non-stop. "I don't even remember the slightest thing about him! How can I even know if what he did was worth forgiving -"

"When you love some one, you forgive them," Mom interrupted, resolutely.

"That's not the point, Mom! I- I," I couldn't help but bursting into tears right then and there.

My mom cupped my face tenderly, whipping away the streaks of tears that were freely flowing on my cheeks. "So you want to know the story, then? Hija, you can't change the past. And I just want to you know, that whatever I tell you, it wasn't your fault that he left, if that's what you're thinking. You were nothing but a child then."

"I know," I smiled, whispering hoarsely.

With a sigh, my mom began telling me, "I met your father in college. He – he was a nice man," Mom difficultly began. I felt bad, and said, "Mom, you don't have to-"

But she stopped me from any more protests. "No, no. You deserve a right to know. So," she started afresh.

"He was everything I thought a man should be, but most importantly, I loved him; I still do."

I stared at her in awe.

"And he loved me to. When he asked me to marry him, I felt as if all the joy in the world put together could not surpass the joy I was feeling in my heart that day. We were," she gave a reminiscing chuckle, "Just like any newly-wed couple. We only had eyes for each other. We lived each day, and each night in practically in each other's arms. And even though we weren't living exactly in the lap of luxury," she gave a wry smile. "He promised – he promised me that we would one day be living with the Big Boys, as he called them. I doubted him, but as any young lover, I said I believed in him, and that I'd help him see through any thing and everything. And… well, one day, there we were. Living in Bell-Air, with every rich TV producer, retired Grammy-winning director there was."

"- what did he do?" I asked in wonder.

Mom just shook her head, not looking at me. "I don't know, mija, but we were finally able to keep food on the table." I couldn't hold back a gasp. I didn't think things were that bad in the beginning. But, I noted ironically, things ended up being that bad in the end – for Mom and me, any way.

"When you have been living off macaroni and cheese for the past year and a half, you don't want to question where your money comes from," she whispered quietly.

"So…" she tried to finish off the story. "One day, he said he had to go. He said he didn't know when or if he'd be back, but he told me he loved the two of us, and to give you all of his love. No matter what sort of man your father ended up becoming," my mom looked me dead serious in the eye. "Never, ever doubt his love for you. He loves you, hija; he would give up anything and everything for you."

By then I was wiping away the tears that were once again forming in my eyes. Screw the mascara and eyeliner. "Mom," I whispered, and when over to hug this brave woman.

"And those C.D.s; you dad really did send them to you," she said, choked up in her own tears.

"I know, Mom. I know." Because, I really did know.