Proof of Existence

This is a quick little dabble that I can't promise I'll continue, inspired somewhat by the recent Victoria Sullivan story.

It was Miss Tabitha's return from New York City that kicked off all of the changes around the house, but I think it would be a little hard to understand if I started explaining everything from there. I'll provide a little background instead -- lay out the relevant facts and events that set the stage for what I went through.

My name is Samantha Miller, and I'm fourteen years old. My father is a businessman, and, until recently, my mother was a normal housewife.

When I say normal, I mean '1950's normal' -- like you see in old movies and stuff. My dad's very Catholic, and partly to go along with his extremely old-fashioned thinking, my mom ended up becoming something like a living stereotype. It wasn't entirely a bad thing, in my mind. I mean, it got on my nerves sometimes that she was so strict about rules and properness and keeping the house perfectly clean -- but at least she wasn't white trash like some of the girls I went to school with.

Miss Tabitha was a friend that my mom had gone to high school with ages ago -- a pretty, petite lady who had long hair and nerdy-looking glasses. She worked as my private piano teacher for the first three years of elementary school. I loved her to bits because she was nice and patient and willing to put up with how utterly useless I was ... right up until she told me to my face that she was quitting because I simply didn't have any talent in music.

I think I might have cried for a week. My mother eventually explained that it wasn't my fault at all -- Miss Tabitha had had some horrible argument with her fiance, and decided to move to New York City. Still, the whole thing traumatized me enough I haven't touched the piano in our living room since.

In Sixth Grade, my father became the Vice President of something or another at his company, and his new responsibilities involved overseeing factories around the country and overseas in Asia. As a result, he would be home maybe one in every three or four weeks, and even when he wasn't away, he was barely ever at the house. I don't know if it was hard on my mom or not, but she seemed to take it in stride, going about her regular housekeeping things like clockwork.

I seriously didn't like the fact that dad seemed to just abandon us for his job -- even though he claimed for ages that he put family values before everything else. He deserves as much of the blame for what happened as Miss Tabitha, I think. If he'd just spent a little more time with us, things could've turned out differently ...

//

It was a cold afternoon in November that she came over to visit for the first time. I remember, because I was the one who answered the door.

"Lookin' good, there, Sammy," said a mannish woman in a deep voice, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. Seeing my confused expression, she as