Well, there it is. A small model of the Titanic, in my daughter's room. I must say, it's a beautiful model; very detailed. You can tell it was made with patience and love. Needless to say, I told Albie she had to find a new place to put it other than her dresser. She did not take it well, and told me it was her room and she could display it where ever she pleased. Then she slammed the door in my face.
Motherhood should not be this hard. The girl is only twelve, but she acts thirty-five. She holds none of the characteristics of her true father, and this is greatly disappointing. Perhaps everyone was right to hope for a son. A son would have been more obedient to his mother.
I often wonder if that woman told my daughter about Albert. It's obvious the girl knows something , and with all the time she spent on her grandmother's porch, absorbing her nonsense, I can't help but suspect she knows and has a low opinion of him. Well, she never knew Albert Francis. Neither did Mother, come to think of it. They can feel all they want, but I am the only one who knows the truth. It has always been that way.
I have the urge to break into Albie's room and smash the model to pieces with a hammer. That would show her who is in charge. James would have a fit, but I do not care. I refuse to play mind games with a cold, manipulative child.
I have the hammer here, and I love to run my finger over the cool, smooth metal. It's strangely calming. Albie will be going on a picnic with Bridget this afternoon, and I will have the house all to myself. I can do it quickly. Before she knows it, little miss Albertine will have her precious model in pieces on her bedroom floor, and I will regain the upper hand. It's high time that girl shows me some respect.
"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way." -Charles Bukowski
"And by the way, dearie, your punctuation sucks canal water!" -The ghost of Vivian Vance