I stare at Lolita. She’s six and no longer has a father figure. Mama used to say, every little girl needs a father figure in her life, a father who knows how to get her daughter out of trouble, a father who knows how to hold her hand when mother’s hands are busy, a father who buys her cotton candy at the fair and shows her how to build sand castles. But my Lolita can’t rely on a man who may not always be there to pick her up. She can’t depend on a father who may not always be there to take her out, a father who may be busy with a new wife, a new family, a new home.
How many times did I tell him we shouldn’t have children? How many times did I tell him that it would be a big responsibility, a big risk, a big mistake? But he never listened and tempted me. He created the perfect family picture, where I was the sweet housewife and mother, and he was the architect who had made the safest, strongest and the most beautiful house. And he did. He made a house so big, so dreamy, so luminous that no wife could ever dream of. This house was even more beautiful than the Barbie house that I always dreamed of having as a child. But it never became a home. My husband knew how to build houses from scratch, he knew where to place things, but he didn’t know how to build a home, a home where he’d watch his family grow every day. Eventually he forgot that he had a pregnant wife waiting for him. He forgot that I feared seeing my doctor alone. He forgot that it if it wasn’t for him, I would have never agreed to be a mom. He missed most of my appointments and didn’t make it on time for the sonogram. During those painful appointments, where I waited alone, in doubt and petrified of the living thing inside me, I read Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. On the day of the sonogram, I finished the book. When the doctor told me I was having a girl, I knew I would name her Lolita.