Being a sixteen year old girl named Nevaeh Sorrento and having three little brothers Jaden, Allen and Michael is not easy at all. If you ask me it’s pretty stressful. I also have a mother by the name of Denise. I know she is beautiful with long blonde hair and huge blue eyes that sparkle no matter where she goes. Denise always dresses like she is going to a conference meeting or something but, she never fails to disappoint me. She is just so annoying and ever since my Daddy died she has never been the same. My home is filled with screams of my younger brothers arguing over the Xbox or the bathroom and the heavy smell of vodka. My three younger brothers should call me Mom, honestly. My mom does not work, cook, clean or even say the three most meaningful words to a child, “I love you.” Oh, what I would do to hear those words again. Just too even see her mouth sound them out. I don’t even call her mom; her name is Denise nothing more and nothing less. I mean seriously, where does she even get that she should be called Mom or mommy? Anyways back to my Dad, his name was Johnson; it’s such a powerful name. He was tall about 6’2 with brown hair and beautiful green striving eyes. He worked every single day of his life; even on his days off he never took a seat. Working was the death of him; I mean literally, too much stress on a man can cause tremendous problems. He died of a heart attack on July 10th when I was fourteen. Yeah, it was two years ago to this day, but I just can’t get it off of my fragile mind. I’m so glad my Dad worked all the time though, my Mom never has and probably never will work, we live off of what my dad left in his will, I call it his little fortune.
I’m a junior in High school in a small gossip filled town. Everyone knows my business and I know everyone’s business. I mean everywhere you go you know something about the people you walk by. Even if what you know is completely useless you just have to tell someone. School is really important to me. I try really hard because I want to do better for myself than my mother has. I have a lot of good friends but I don’t trust anyone with any of my business, so people just assume. I’m just a typical teen but the expectations people have for me make me feel close to a God. I stay completely out of drama because I have better things to do and to worry about, like taking care of my three fragile hearted little brothers. They don’t even know how hard the world is. To tell the truth I don’t think they can even comprehend what is to come.
Denise is an alcoholic, most moms wake up and drink a cup of coffee, my mom wakes up and it seems like the bottle of vodka is super glued to her hand. She keeps a death grip on it. I don’t even try to tell her she is worthless because it doesn’t do anything but make her giggle. You would swear the vodka numbs more than just her body; it numbs her heart and all the emotions that are very much needed in our home. We don’t have conversations, we basically don’t talk nor even glance at each other. Just state the word hello once in a while. I wish she could see how much my brothers need her and even how much I need her. I mean we have all the essentials of life, nice clothes, food, shelter, but we don’t have the emotional stability we need. It all went away the day my father was buried. Denise needs help, professional help, I wish she would take a slight word of advice. Or even step out of her black shiny high heels and into my worn out sneakers.
I wonder quite often who she thinks she is just abandoning her children the way she did. Or if she even thinks about it, I mean does it even cross her mind. I honestly miss her; I miss the way she use to be. I miss seeing her with my daddy in complete happiness. Now Denise is just a drunk mess all the time. Looks can be so deceiving. Don’t get me wrong I love Denise with all my heart but I don’t have any respect for her. How does she even have respect for herself?
My days consist of waking up an hour and a half earlier than I should have to just to get my brothers ready for school and daycare. I dress them, feed them make sure they have everything than walk them to where they need to go. So I always look rough, I’m a sixteen year old mother of three. Doesn’t that sound bizarre? Well after I get them ready for their day I worry about myself, they always come first no matter what the situation is. Those three little boys are my world, my everything and I will do anything in my power to make them happy. Seriously taking care of them isn’t as hard as it should be they have learned to be pretty independent. I wish they could remember everything about my dad, the warm smell of cologne that always lingered behind him and threw the house as he got ready for work or the facial expressions he made when he talked. I just want them to know how amazing this man was and how much he did for his family. Unlike mom, Dad thought of family first, we never left his mind. He always told me no matter what you always have your family and that blood is thicker than water but when Daddy died all his little mottos were washed away: that easily, that quickly. Kind of like they never existed to my mom, kind of like he never existed. Denise doesn’t talk about Daddy, occasionally she walks by their wedding picture hanging in the hallway and strokes it, I don’t think she thinks I notice, but I do, I see her do it every time.
I don’t like when people give me sympathy, I don’t need it, it makes me feel worthless and I need to feel stable, I need stable people in my life. I mean I’m a stable person, most sixteen year olds could not handle what I do, but I stay strong for the three children that need a mother or at least something like mother. I feel bad for them for what I am about to do, but in the long run they will do nothing but thank me.
So today is the day the social worker comes to our house and sees that mother is not fit. I want her to go to rehab, and those are the plans. The house still reeks of vodka on this bright Saturday morning; the boys are playing on the swing set, not even worrying about anything, they have no clue. The social worker knocks and I let her in. She takes a sudden seat on the brown leather couch next to Michaels Xbox controller. I call for my mom and she walks out. They talk for a little while I can see the fire in Denise’s eyes. I know deep down this is for the better, she needs help and my grandmother can be our guardian until she gets out. Denise is dressed in black heels like always, a dressy black shirt and gray pin striped pants. She looks so professional (like always). I think the social worker was expecting a dirty women with baggy clothes on or something because her expression completely changes when she saw my mother. She wasn’t going to do anything about Denise, just let us live it out. But like I said before, looks can be so deceiving.