by Mariana Somerset

Created on: August 19, 2008

~Dilemma of a Daughter~

She held the cold, metal picture frame tightly in her small hands. The photograph beneath the glass reminded her of times that had been and gone. She traced her fingertips along the outline of the smiling people. There was a joyful, close-knit family in that photo. At least, they seemed that way. A tall, proud father used his posture to assert his place as head of the household. A gentle, kind-looking woman with the softest features stood firmly by his side, her fingers laced with his. A little girl with soft, blue eyes and a subtle grin had her arms wrapped around her mother's legs. All three of them stood in front of a beautiful, crystal blue lake and majestic, towering trees.

She quickly squeezed her eyes shut, as if she were trying to make the memory go away. She put the picture frame back on the mantle above the fireplace. A few fellow guests were sipping punch and whispering in the corner. She stepped away from the mantle and wandered into the living room. The casket sat humbly off to the side and out of everyone's way, just like her father. He never wanted to intrude or interrupt. He didn't want to be a burden. And there he lay, not interrupting a thing. A few people here and there would stop and take a peek, maybe place a rose or two on top of the casket. But they didn't shed a tear or spend more than a few minutes remembering the deceased. They would fulfill their assumed obligation, and then continue to mingle with family and old acquaintances they meant to call, but never did. Their lives were simply about going through the motions, not actually living.
As she stood by the casket, a young, slender woman strolled over, her high heels clacking on the hardwood floors and a drink in her hand.
"Delilah?" she asked in an arrogant sort of way.
Delilah looked up, and her eyes - still soft and still blue - met with those of the other woman.
"Yes?" she replied.
"I'm Abigail."
Delilah turned her head and looked out the window. While staring at children riding bicycles across the street, she asked, "You're Abigail? 'The' Abigail?"
"Yes. I'm 'the' Abigail. Abigail Carter."
That name Abigail Carter. Delilah cringed at the sound of it. "Oh," she said. It was all she could muster up.
"And you're Delilah - Delilah Hawkins. Correct?" Abigail said with a subtle hint of disgust.
She nodded, with a newfound hatred of her own name.
"Where's your mother? Joan, right?"
Delilah felt herself tearing up. "My mom passed away a few years ago."
"Oh, I'm

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