Maroon Shoes

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It’s been four years since my father left us. He disappeared off the face of the earth without warning, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves. Now, to be completely honest here, I never really developed much of a bond with him anyways, so the separation between us has had only a microscopic impact on my life. Even so, there are things that I wish I could know about him; after all, he is still my father. Unfortunately, my mother disagrees; she always disagrees.
She makes a point that knowing about my father’s life would not benefit me as a teenager, but I never said it would. I simply believe that it is my right to know the one who’s responsible for my flaws. I have hypothesized that my father is to blame for my inconformity to rules and terrible memory. I mean, he left us when I was eight and I can only remember his name; the name of whom has been prohibited in this household. Even in knowing his name, it doesn’t do me any good. He didn’t have many friends in Portland, Oregon, and there seems to be no record of him anywhere; I’ve checked.
I suppose that the reason why my mom refuses to talk about my dad is that she is afraid that I will run off on a crazy adventure to find him. Maybe she figures that if she hides it from me, I will forget and lose the desire to know. But, my poor mother, I cannot just give up on something as important as this. It means too much to me to quit.
Another flaw.
I have the stubbornness of a bull and am as selfish as a cat.

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It seems that the fights between my mom and I have become almost a daily occurrence, though, I usually do most of the arguing. My mother is one of the quietest and calmest people I have ever met. She manages to never raise her voice, even if she is fur...

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... I can’t help but blame my dad for the way I’ve acted since he left. I feel like I am trying to fill his place; act the way he would if he were here.
I think, maybe, I’m starting to realize that I can never fill his place, and maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t think he would want me trying to be someone I am not. If I were to fill his place, that would mean that I have to be a rule-breaker all the time. I don’t think I could do that. Honestly, I am tired of being a rule-breaker. Sometimes I want to do as I’m told and stop putting on a show. I’m tired of being something I am not.
And at that moment, without another thought, I grabbed the maroon shoes and hurled them into the lake. The shoelaces waved wildly in the air, grabbing at the wind to save them. Then, the little waves engulfed the shoes and pulled them under, inch-by-inch. Soon they were gone; only a memory.
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