Personal Narrative: Daddy's Girl

From the moment I was born, my position as “Daddy’s Girl” was cemented. My father cut my umbilical cord, the medical staff cleaned me up, wrapped my small, raisin-like body in a blanket, and handed me to my old man. The instant I was in his arms, I cooed and began mouthing his neck, as I was mere minutes old and without proper nibbling equipment. Years went by and my dad became my partner in crime; if he and my mother were going to the same location in separate cars, I would choose to ride with my father every time. He was fun, though albeit a little reckless and unstable. He never held a steady job, doing any number of things from driving a semi-truck, to assembling appliances at Whirlpool, and the like, while my mother worked at APAC as well

Every time they would get back together in the hopes that they could give me a better childhood together than apart. Before my birth, my father had been emotionally and physically abusive toward her, though she stayed because she thought she could change him. As time passed, it seems to me now that she felt that she had to change him, not for herself or what he had done to her, but rather for myself and my siblings to make sure we had a father who was present. Around age eight, roughly speaking, Mom had had enough of Dad’s yelling and left with myself and my siblings in tow. We moved to a townhouse style complex, as that is all she could afford, and I would not stop complaining. All I would ask is when Dad was coming back and if we could be a family again. I didn’t truly know what my mom was dealing with at the time and just wanted to have my dad home. Several months go by and my dad can no longer afford our house, so after some promises to change my dad was with us again. Everything was relatively routine in the townhouse, and in the April of fourth grade we moved into a house closer to my school. In this house I went from a child who was never close to her mother and in utter awe of her father, to defending my sobbing mother and becoming terrified of my best