Broken Promises Under The Influence Of Blue Agave Chapter 3

While I’m raising my girls, Rebecka and Gracie to be honest and truthful in all things. I cannot help but point the finger at myself. I have not been fair to myself or with my daughters. This bothers me off and on when I stop long enough to think about it.

I struggle with my life’s choices when waking up at 1:30 in the morning. I have two wonderful girls that are quickly turning into young women. I am proud to be their mother. Yet I have this underlying issue that I need to address with them.

Both Rebecka and Gracie deserve a truthful answer to why my husband abandoned us a short two years ago. I know it has affected both girls and especially Rebecka. She is growing up in a world that I sometimes do not understand. She slips between being a happy teenager to a lost soul. She has periods of self-doubt that she would never admit to me. She has deep seated anger issues that I know stem from the abandonment of her father.

I have tried to put all the blame on myself. Like it was my fault and telling Rebecka and Gracie it was personal between their dad and me. I made sure they heard me say it enough that it his abandonment was not their fault. I hoped that would suffice and silence their questions. It hasn’t. Although I cuddle with them and run my fingers through their hair and give them mommy kisses and repeat over and over again, their daddy does love them very much. I have no actual answers as to why he never writes, calls or even sends them something. He totally has dropped out of our lives.

I’m going to gather my courage, sit them down and tell them the whole story soon. I feel guilty, and I need to explain the entire truth to the girls.


I’m tired tonight, the construction business is booming, and right now I’m working seven days a week. I pull into my driveway of my home after another long day on the construction site. My truck sits idling while I reach up and hit the remote button to the garage door. I watch as the door opens slowly exposing the insides of my home. At that very second, I have this epiphany that saddens me because it is an accurate reflection of my life. I have it all closed up, and I hide behind my outward persona ignoring the deepest of my feelings. As the garage door stops at the top and I stare into the semi-darkness at all my shit, I start to cry.


Gracie is in her room studying for next Monday’s quiz. She is not the procrastinator that I am. I mean, come on it’s Friday afternoon. I would be trying to find a way out of the house and escape from my parents and two sisters. My sisters are all older, so I learned how to play the game from them. Deep down I’m pretty sure my parents knew exactly what we three girls were up to. But they never let on. They let things play out.

So, I am sitting here in the living room drinking a glass of excellent Fence Post Winery Chardonnay and glad I didn’t have to work today. Playing some of my favorite music and sipping the wine I am thinking about what I am going to make for dinner. Being an adult sometimes sucks.


“Come on Marshall; it’s just a frigging song. I say out loud, “Why am I sobbing?” I don’t know about anybody else but when my inner feelings rise to the surface, and I try my damnedest to shove them back into the recesses of my internal garage. It’s at that moment a song will play that is rooted deep in my past experience, and I will admit it to myself I get goose-bumps. Well sitting here in my truck this song started the water works to flow down my three-day old beard. I listen to the song and wipe my tears. I love the song, even swaying like a willow tree on a windy day. I don’t know why either, crying yet loving the song. I am mouthing the words to the song. I’m an idiot, stop it!


I need another glass of wine before Gracie comes downstairs and asks me what’s for dinner. I’ll probably tell her a ‘TV Dinner,’ she will cock her head and frown trying to figure out what that means. I will laugh at her and tell her how many of those dinners we ate on Saturday nights while we three girls sat and watched old episodes of some dumb show called Hee Haw that my father looked forward to every week. Somewhere in his head he thought it was a great family night with TV Dinner’s and watching ’his’ show. We girls rolled our eyes and every week we begged daddy to watch something different, anything, but no it was TV Dinners and Hee Haw. Secretly I think it was Roy Clark and Buck Owens country cornball music he loved.

My sister’s Mary, Marilyn and me, Carly or should I say, Crosby? Dad loved my mother dearly and all three of us kids. My father is a bit of a recluse now that he is getting older. Mom told me that Dad was a real hippie. Lived the life even owned an old-school bus. He lived in a commune for a year and a half, met my mother there. He met Wavy Gravy once He still brags about that. I had to research out who the heck was Wavy Gravy?

We were raised Catholic. Hence, Mary for Mother Mary, Marilyn that is easy, Marilyn Monroe and of course me Crosby for Crosby, Stills, and Nash. My dad, in my opinion, is slightly bent from those “free hippy years.”

“So now I am sitting here sipping my wine with all these memories going through my head when it happened. The song!


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