I. Sunny Dale

Sunny Dale.

Sunny is a name my mother choose to give me.

She said it is because I'm her: "little bucket of sunshine."

I used to love my name until a shroud of cloud made its way.

Mom died when I was five.

Well, not really.

She's actually still very much alive.

It just so happen she lives in another state with another man and his child.

To me, she might as well die.

She wasn't a bad mother, no, she loves me very much.

I can't say she is a good wife, though.

A good wife doesn't go out with another man, and a good man wouldn't confess his love to someone's wife.

"Baby, your mother is on the phone. She wants to talk to you," my dad said, poking his head into the door.

I pop the bubblegum, thumbs mindlessly twiddling with the controller, "I'm busy."

Dad released a deep breath. "Your mom thinks you hate her."

"I have to feel something to hate her," I respond, shooting the player in front of me. My teammates were angry, typing how inconsiderate I am for moving in without them.

"Sunny, baby, don't do this. She loves you."

I circled the wall, getting ready for my next kill. "If she loves me, then she wouldn't have kissed a stranger on our couch."

That's how mom got caught.

Her sweet little sunshine caught her, kissing another man on the couch.

God knows what else they had been doing before I caught them.

When I realized my mistake, I died.

I blew out a breath of air, seeing the screen blinking - Game Over.

I turn to my side. "Dad I didn't mean-"

He smiled, the still broken-hearted one. "Just talk to her baby," he replied, handing me the phone.

I grabbed the phone and held it against my ear, "Hello?"

"Sunny!" Mom chirps. She began talking about what I had been missing when I didn't pick up her calls.

I would reply with an: "Oh" or "Uh-huh" once in a while. I could barely get a word whenever I talk with mom over the phone. She has a habit of never shutting up. Sometimes, I wonder if she even cared about what I have to say.

I said she isn't a bad mother, but it doesn't mean she is a good one either.

"Did you get my gifts?"

"Yes," I responded, staring at the piles of pink clothes. The clothes that I couldn't fit unless I were twelve. For some reason, she thinks I'm still the twelve years old little walking stick. Then again, the last time I saw her was when I was twelve.

I began cleaning up the hoard of gifts mom brought for me. I held the urge to huff a breath before throwing the light up pink shoes into the box.

"Sunny! Are you listening?"

No. "Yes."

"So, what do you think?"

Oh, so now you care about what I think? "Can you repeat that, please?"

"Your dad and I talked. We think it's a good idea for you to come to stay with me for the summer. What do you think?"

What do I think? What do I think! I held the phone against my chest, "Dad, we need to talk!"