I wasn't happy in the first place, then my father left.

He was what held me together, we had a future planned for me, I would travel the world as an artist, I would be known as well as Da Vinci.

Then he died. It wasn't like a long-term thing. He had a tumor, quick and painful.

I would love to say that I was strong, I really would. Except I wasn't. I cried like a baby.

I slashed a couple of my portraits with my dad, walked around outside yelling a lot, and I finally got back home and wouldn't get out of bed for a week.

My dad was my everything. He was the one who explained puberty to me, discusses boys I like, we understood each other. When he died, I fell apart.

My mother left me alone, we never actually talked about it but, I always cared about him more than my mother did, I heard them talking about the upcoming divorce.

I was preparing for the whole "we both love you but we don't love each other" speech but his death kind of put the brakes on that.

My best friend Andy, her real name is Antonia but she hates that, understands that I am not big on comforting except with my dad, so she gives me space.

On the eighth day of my grieving, my mother comes into my room (which is practically destroyed) and tells me that Paris isn't a good place for me anymore.

My parents got married at 18, thinking they were in love, they had me, they had little Rosemary, (my baby sister living with my grandparents in the states) and stayed together "till death do us part" which was about a week ago.

My mother wants to move to the states to be with her parents and Rosemary, who is a budding nine year old, eight years younger than me.

I scream and cry, and yell. I call Andy who doesn't pick up, thinking I am still grieving.

I finally obliged a couple nights later. Maybe being in the states will be good for my "happiness problem" that's what my dad and I called it.