Short Story: My little Yellow Butterfly
By: A.J

I’ve given up on Abigail. I fought too long a battle where I knew that winning was not a sure victory. Looking at it now, winning would have done more harm than good, yet the consequences of losing were far greater than winning. I did not even know what the reward was, if that made sense. What was there to win anyway, a child’s emotion was not a play thing
My love for Abigail was somewhat like black diamond or a prized possession. It went deep and had a uniqueness that no one would understand; not even the woman who raised me and thought she had me figured out.
I remembered being at this exact moment when after four or five months of having her, the inevitable call from her mother and pain from the preparations to give her away. My little yellow butterfly was going away again. I hated these moments! When I looked into her pair of green eyes I saw that childhood innocence never touched it. My child knew and understood far greater than any adult. I knew that she wasn’t and will never be mine. I’m letting her go this time. I told myself, my memories of her. If I could not save Abigail, at least I would give her the opportunity to belong to one family. No longer am I confusing her of whom she is and where she belongs. I know that she wouldn’t remember the girl she called Sister, but I made her, for the first two years of her life feel the closest thing to a mother. And by right she deserved it.
I sat there, with images and memories effervescing through my head whiles I prepared her for her journey back to her mother's slum. I cringed between breathing intervals, quavers rumpled up my body. The purple dress I laid out on the bed became my inner soul and the red little flip flops I bought her last week, contrasted like the emotions that lingered within me.
I often wondered why I keep putting my heart on the line. After all I’m only seventeen. It isn’t the time for me to worry about raising another woman’s baby; much less mine own. I should be focusing on college and my future career right now, not fighting for some kid I couldn’t even take care of. But something about her drew me in. She was my addiction, my heroine. My love for her would fill up and overflow a vast portion of the earth with ease. Her pain was mine. The burdens that this little angel carried brought up in a crack house, I was more than willing to carry, more than able to bear.
“Sister,” her tiny voice mumbled as I drew back to reality. “Sista, we going,” she said as if unsure of what that might lead up to. But I knew that she sensed the tension that threatened to pummel me into the ground.

“Yes Abigail” I managed through tears.
“We are going to meet your mother,” she didn’t understand. I knew because five straight months would do that to a two year old. For all she knew we were her family. I was her sister and she was Abigail. Not her real name. Now that I looked at it, our reality was nothing more than a flower I made up, an alternate reality. Nothing more.
“My mother? Sister I don’t want to go meet my mother!”
What was I to say to this baby? Silence was all I could manage. My emotions were scattered everywhere, I did not know what would come next, where to turn, whom to call. Family court turned me down a second time...
As I let her go, I prayed, for God to allow me to get older. I was handicapped by age. I held my hands out to her, this time it was different. Different for me of course. I imagined what lay ahead for her; the same hunger pains, abuse and loneliness I suppose. What should I do? Leave her forever, and allow her to forget me, for her sake so she could go on living with her oppressor. Or should I fight, give up half of my life, my family; sacrifice my sanity to save her? I wish God would show me the way. I would have given any thing if He showed me the correct answer.
“Abigail it’s time now, let’s go”
“Sista will you buy me juice?” I smiled when she asked me this. My nerves, at least for now were a bit under control.
“Yes Abigail, sister will buy you anything you want” I said feeling a bit stronger. We grabbed hold of each other’s hands for what I thought was the last time. And so we went.

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