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Disclaimer: If I owned Gilmore girls, do you think I would be sitting at a computer, writing fanfiction?

No, seriously.

Besides, I have five dollars to my name. Why would you sue me?

That Damn Painting

Lorelai Gilmore—Age 32

It's been more or less sixteen years since I've been in my parents' house for anything but holidays—Christmas and Easter every year, nothing more. For the first time in sixteen years, I take a good look around instead of just handing them some sort of gift and sitting down.

I figure that if I have to been here every Friday, for an in indefinite amount of time, I might as well see what's changed.

My answer is nothing.

The house looks the same. Not identical: some of the knickknacks have changed, but the overall effect of the room is the same. Old, depressing, not a room that's lived in.

They have the same painting hung over the fireplace.

I remember that painting. The day that my parents and I posed for it, that was the day that I realized that I didn't belong in this family. And then they hung it over the fireplace, a constant reminder that I'm not one of them, that I've never been one of them.

On some level, that bothers me. I mean, me and Mom aren't exactly joined at the hip, but I've always wanted to fit into her world, in some way. I'd pretty much given up on it, when I only saw her twice a year, but it'll be hard seeing her once a week.

I hate her world, but for some reason, I've always wanted to be a part of it. She and Dad love to show Rory off, take her places, talk about taking her to Europe, whatever. Me, I'm just a lost cause, someone that they only put up with because without me, they don't get to see Rory.

I look back up at the painting.

The day that we posed for that picture is perfectly clear in my memory. We 'had' to pose for it, because the Tashners had had a portrait done with their son, and Mom was 'sure' that Gina Tashner was trying to take her place at the DAR. So, of course, we had to one-up the Tashners.

The moment that Mom explained why I had to sit still for that portrait, I knew that I was in the wrong family. I was just a kid, but it was crazy. Ridiculous. Insane. Who would be that bothered by something so small?

Oh, yeah. Mom would be bothered by someone appearing to have more money or whatever than her.

It took hours to find a "good" pose, and no, it can't be done from a photo! So there I was, all of eight years old, sitting still for hours and hours. And hours and hours. And hours and hours.

You know the more that I think about it, the more I realize what a waste of time that painting was. I mean, just because Mom managed to get one up on some DAR lady didn't keep me from getting pregnant at sixteen.

I wonder how many points she lost for that!

I mean, I got pregnant, refused to marry the boy that a slept with, and then ran away.

Definitely born into the wrong family.

But here I am, sitting back in that house that I thought I had escaped sixteen years ago. Only now I'm here because I humbled myself to beg for money from my parents—all for Rory. It's always been about Rory.

All about Rory.

All about Rory.

All about Rory.

Never their wanting to be involved in my life: for God's sake, Mom still thinks that I work at a motel! They just care about their little granddaughter.

Not that I could ever fault them for that. I love Rory more than anyone or anything. I just … I guess that I'm afraid they'll do to her what they did to me: posing for ridiculous portraits, superfluous events, over-the-top coming out parties.

Well, they never made me do the coming out party. Though that was because I was pregnant.

But all the crap that they put me through, in some crazy, convoluted way, created Rory. If they hadn't tried to suppress me, I wouldn't have rebelled. If I hadn't rebelled, I wouldn't have slept with Christopher that day. And if I hadn't slept with him that day—at that time—who knows what kid I would have? Chance is so much of it …

But I got lucky that day.

I've got Rory, whether or not she's being dragged around by her grandparents.

I think that I can put up with them once a week.

"So, Lorelai, how are things at your motel?"

I feel my teeth clench. Maybe not.

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Myra