Prompt:

"Stop stealing my sweatshirts!"

"No, they're too comfy!"

Daddy's Little Sweatshirt Girl

"Stop stealing my sweatshirts!" my dad said, laughing and tickling my round, little tummy.

"No!" I squealed, squirming around on his lap as he tickled me more, "they're too comfy. And," I said, rolling over, and sliding off of his lap, onto the soft carpeted floor, "they fit me perfectly." I held up my stubby three-year-old arms to show him. The sleeves hung down, my hands not even reaching the cuffs. The bottom of the shirt was sitting on the ground around my ankles.

He laughed softly, and scooped me up, holding me in his big strong arms, and kissing me on the forehead.

"I love you, Jude."

"Love you too, Daddy."

***

It was one year since my dad's death. Both Mum and I haven't gotten over it. He was the perfect father, with his beaming smile and warm hugs. Perfect, and loved by his wife and twelve-year-old daughter.

But now that was gone... forever.

The sound of a car door slamming roused me from my mournful thoughts. I ran up to the window, just in time to see a red car pulling out of the driveway. I couldn't identify the driver because of the tinted windows. Probably one of Mum's friends, I thought.

"Judith, lunch," my mum called from the kitchen. I washed my hands, and headed downstairs. I sat down at the table, my mum sitting across from me.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, until I looked up and asked; "Who was that?" I ask. She looked at quizzically. I continued, "There was a car in the driveway, and it left just as you called lunch. Who came?"

"No one came, Jude. Was the car just turning in our driveway?"

"No, Mum, I heard the car door slam. Someone came into the driveway, and got out of their car."

"Why don't you check outside?"

"Sure," I said, standing up and heading for the door.

***

The doctor had warned it wouldn't be long. But this was too soon. I grabbed Dad's hand, and screamed for Mum to come. She immediately woke up, and sprang from the seat where she had been taking a short nap. Running to the side of the narrow hospital bed, and lightly pushing me aside, she pressed the button above the headboard to call the nurses in. She took Dad's hand and looked up at the displays above his head. The heart rate had gone down to almost nil, and he had stopped breathing. I screamed again, and nearly fainted.

"Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad!" I screamed.

It had only been a week ago, that I had been saying good-bye to him. He had been called out on a work meeting. It was well past midnight, and he was driving, trying to get home before it was the next day. There had been a lot of traffic. The car in front of him didn't have working back lights. The car stopped suddenly, and Dad didn't notice, and continued driving, right into it.

He had been rushed to a nearby hospital, then once stabilized, sent to our local hospital. He had many pieces of glass impaled deeply into his skin, and he had a severe brain injury. The air bags had done almost nothing. Despite the super strong fabric that the airbags were made of, they had been popped by a piece of razor sharp metal, that had come crashing through the windshield from the trunk door of the other car. The metal had also impaled Dad. After that, he stayed unconscious, leaving the doctors wondering how he was feeling, and If they were caring for a dead body. They had cleaned him up, and since the first moment I saw him, I hadn't left his side.

Even though I knew he would never survive this, I still couldn't believe it. He didn't deserve to die. It was all the fault of a man who was to lazy to fix his rear lights. It was illegal not to have working rear lights, but the man still didn't care. I hope he has trouble paying the fines. It's an evil thought, but he has affected my life forever.

***

I stepped onto the porch, into the chilly afternoon air. Looking down at the faded front mat, I saw a box, neatly wrapped, sitting on the porch railing. I picked it up, and shook it lightly. It sounded soft, like clothes. I carried it inside, and took it into the dining room where Mum was still sitting. I set the box down onto the table, but she pushed it right back into my arms.

"Look at the label," she said softly. A tear rolled down her cheek, "It's for you."

I looked at the tag tied to the package, and saw my name written in a fancy script. It was Dad's handwriting. He must have given it to someone to give to me. Below my name on the tag, was a short, but sweet note.

Dear Jude,

Happy Eleventh Birthday! Sorry I missed this one! I'm hoping you and Mum are well, and that your party was fun! I'll try to get back as soon as I can!

Love, Dad.

PS, I hope they still fit perfectly.

I began to cry. I still had no idea what was in the package, but I knew it was something thoughtful from Dad. I ran up to my room, still crying, to open the present in private.

Dad had been called off on a work meeting, three days before my birthday. Even though he had said he was so sorry, and I had said it was okay, I had still been disappointed. The party hadn't been half as fun as my other ones. My mum was worried the whole time that someone was going to get hurt. Sure, trampoline parks were sort of dangerous, but without my dad to calm her, Mum had her full overprotective mom thing turned way up, and she was yelling half the time.

I plopped down on the edge of my bed and carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside were a multitude of colourful sweatshirts. I began to sob even more. I had always wanted to be like Dad when I was little. I would try to walk in his shoes, put on his suits and ties, and most frequently, try on his sweatshirts. It got so crazy, that Mum started calling me 'Daddy's Little Sweatshirt Girl.' I had always loved his sweatshirts. How they fell around me, and how they smelled like Dad. I had insisted many times that they fit me perfectly, and that they were mine. Sometimes, I wouldn't give them back, and hide them in my closet. No matter how many times I stole them, and no matter how dirty I got them, Dad would always just laugh, and take them back.

I missed Dad so much right now, and I wished that I could thank him, and talk to him. But that wasn't possible. I slipped a sweatshirt on. It was still a bit big, but it was perfect. I ran back down the stairs to Mum.

Losing Dad has been terrible, but I think this gift has eased the pain a little. It has also helped me think a little clearer. Now a thought has occurred to me, that didn't before; would Dad really want us to keep living our lives so mournfully? Or would he want us to be happy, and to remember him by doing things he would have wanted to.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I told myself that it was finally time to move on.

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Word count: 1288