My Brief Relationship With My Daughter

By Tom Busillo

The headaches had been getting worse, not better, and despite what the doctors said—migraines aggravated by stress—I couldn't help but think they portended something eventful. 

That Tuesday, it hit suddenly like a bolt of lightning—a blinding pain that had me on my knees.

Then my skull split open.

She dropped out fully formed, landing on the linoleum, sneering. But she was no Athena, and I was no Zeus. She looked like a young goth Joan Jett: Doc Martens, a Fields of the Nephilim T-shirt, black leather miniskirt, ripped fishnet stockings, silver skull-and-serpent rings, eyes where an entire eyeliner pencil had gone to die.

I’ll never forget her first words: “I need twenty bucks.”

I just stared.

“Are you slow on the uptake or something?” she snapped. “I said I need twenty bucks.” I opened my wallet and gave it to her.

She didn’t thank me. Just folded it once and stuck it in her boot. “And your car keys.” I handed them over. Stunned.

"I hope you won’t be needing it anytime soon,” she muttered and turned for the door.

“I always hoped I’d have a daughter,” I blurted out, stupidly.

She paused and rolled her eyes. “God, you’re so weird,” she said. Then she left.

That was the last I ever saw of her. Or the car.

I didn't even have time to take a photo. Teach her how to ride a bike. Learn the names of her stuffed animals. Help her with her math homework. Yell from the bleachers at middle school games. See her through her very first heartbreak. But at least in our brief time together, I could honestly say I gave her everything she ever asked for.

About the Author

Tom Busillo's (he/his) writing has appeared in McSweeney's, trampset, The Baltimore Review, The Disappointed Housewife, Heavy Feather Review, and elsewhere. He is a Best Short Fictions nominee and the author of the unpublishable 2,646-page conceptual poem "Lists Poem," composed of 11,111 nested 10-item lists. He lives in Philadelphia, PA.By Author Name