Title: Confessions of a Broken Heart
Rated: PG
Features: Kristy Thomas
Summary: Songfic. Based on canon from The Baby-sitters Club series. A reflection, of sorts.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Ann M. Martin, lyrics belong to Lindsay Lohan. Interpretation of character and story belongs to me, so don't steal, mmmkay?
Reviews are love.

I'll wait for the postman to bring me a letter ... and I'll wait for the good Lord to make me feel better . . .

"Charlie didn't want to come," I said.

I didn't find this surprising; Charlie had often wanted nothing to do with our father. Maybe it was because he was the oldest. He remembered Dad the most, his memories were not blurred by the childhood wishes that often made it hard to tell where reality left off and illusion began. Charlie's memories were intact, vivid, and most of all, completely realistic. And they jaded him as well. He didn't long for a father the way Sam, David Michael, and I did. He didn't believe fathers really existed at all.

Oh, he got along with Watson. But I've long suspected that the relationship they shared was not one of father to son at all; rather, they had a mutual understanding and respect, and treated each other as more acquaintences than anything else. Charlie, I decided, simply had no room in his heart for a father, and therefore he didn't look to Watson as such.

It was funny, then, that David Michael was so far at the other end of the spectrum. Being the youngest, he was the one who knew Dad least of all, and he was the one who carried around fantasies inside of his head and pretended that they were real memories. He got along with Watson too, but there was always that slight rift between them. It would come out, occasionally. Sometimes in little ways: David Michael would be late for school, perhaps, and Watson would attempt to scold him--only to have David Michael, grumpy from a lack of sleep, snap, "Why should I listen to you? You're not my dad." I suspected that David Michael never thought much about his little comments. He was a teenager, plain and simple, and his mood swings disappeared just as rapidly as they arrived.

But Watson gave thought to them. I knew that too. Hurt would flicker through his eyes at every comment, and yet he never responded to them. Not verbally, at least. David Michael let them go, and so Watson was simply willing to admit defeat in order to keep the peace.

And I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders ... family in crisis that only grows older ...

It must have hurt Watson, I knew, to have raised four children who were not his own, only to have them long for a man who'd walked out at the first chance he'd gotten. I wanted to sympathize with him. I wanted to be the child he could be proud of, perhaps. He had Karen and Andrew, of course, two adorable children that, though sometimes trying on one's patience, never quite let go of their worship and respect for "Daddy." I was proud of them for that, at least, and I tried as well ... but I could never compare because deep down, I longed for the man who had left, too.

Maybe I resented Watson a little as well. Because he was there. Because he made staying look so simple. He was Karen and Andrew's father first, and everyone knew it.

And none of us could quite understand why we hadn't been good enough to convince our father to stay, as well.

So why'd you have to go? Why'd you have to go? Daughter to father, daughter to father ... I am crying, a part of me's dying ...

"I don't know if Sam really wanted to come or not," I went on after a moment, vaguely aware that my voice was shaking and not caring in the least. "But he did, for awhile anyway, so that's what matters, I guess." Sam was always that kind of person, I knew. He never talked about his feelings. Not to me, at least, although I suspected he didn't really talk about them to anyone. It was why he had the reputation that he did: he was humorous, happy-go-lucky. Nothing ever bothered him, or if it did, nobody ever knew it. It was selfish but I, at least, had needed that in my brother. Some part of me needed him to not feel because it made me cling to my illusions that everything was all right. Sam was laughing, Sam was telling a joke ... nothing could be truly wrong if Sam was smiling.

He'd gotten that from our father. I knew that, too. And I wondered, suddenly, if Sam would inherit other things from our father as well. Would he walk out one day, too?

I didn't want that. But I knew I'd never be able to control it. Sam would do what he wanted, just like Charlie had done and David Michael had done, just like I wanted to do and never could.

I dream of another you, one who would never, neverleave me alone to pick up the pieces ... daddy to hold me, that's what I needed ...

Everyone had a role in our family, and I was only beginning to realize it. Our father had fulfilled his perfectly ... he'd crossed those invisible boundaries that fathers are tempted to cross but never should. Our father had crossed them as if they didn't even exist, and he'd never looked back. I was realizing that, too. As a child, I'd held some secret hope in the back of my heart that he was thinking about us, wherever he was. That he was only waiting for the right time to come back. I clung to that hope without even realizing that I was doing so, even after Mom married Watson, even after he did return, only to disappear again. It was just a game, like watching the Mets go for a home run during the seventh inning. We all had to be tense in the meantime, we all had to sit at the edge of our seats to be prepared for what was going to happen next ... but deep down we knew, or at least hoped, how it would turn out.

But that was an illusion, too.

And I'd never tried to be weak. Like Charlie was set in his hatred, David Michael in his longing and Sam in his humor, I was the one who helped our mother keep it all together. Kristy was the leader, they'd say about me. I don't know if that was the way I really was, deep down, or if it was just a role that I had been handed and had accepted without giving it much thought. I loved challenges, everyone knew that.

But pretending to not be human at all is too much of a challenge, and sometimes I wanted to crawl into bed and cry out all of the lonely sadness that nobody even realized that I felt.

Because I wasn't supposed to be feeling it.

"You did it, you know," I said, lifting a hand to wipe a stray tear that had started to make its' way down my cheek. It was starting to get cold, I observed without really noticing. "You got what you wanted." I paused, aware that my voice was shaking even more. I realized that it was because I was struggling to hold back an entire flood of tears. My chest ached like it had never ached before, and I suddenly wondered when I'd cried last.

I couldn't remember.

Daughter to father, daughter to father. Tell me the truth, did you ever love me? Cause these are ... these are the confessions of a broken heart.

Swallowing hard, I knelt slightly, reaching to set down the item I'd held in my other hand. It was a single yellow rose, the significance of which only I would understand. Only I and my father, of course. He'd send yellow roses sometimes. Not very often at all, really, but deep down I always believed he had good intentions. Yellow roses, I knew, were supposed to symbolize an apology.

"I'm sorry that I hate you," I murmured as I set the rose down on the cold, damp earth, noticing that it immediately sank slightly into the freshly turned dirt, dirt which rubbed off on my hand even as I withdrew it. The tears were starting to flow now, and I no longer tried to stop them as I straightened again, looking down at my father's grave. I hated him for leaving. I'd hated him for leaving for my entire life ... and I hated him now, a fierce hatred that made bile rise in my throat along with the bitter tears that I couldn't hold back. The hatred was only more fierce now, I knew, because it was no longer softened by the hope that he would return.

He wasn't coming back. And I finally knew it.