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I was four-months-old when our father died — he worked at a gas station and was shot during a robbery.
After that, the four of us moved into the basement apartment of my mom's mother's house, where my sisters and I shared a room. She was rebellious and loved pop music and makeup, which my grandmother and mother couldn't stand.
She's also incredibly cool and promised to cover for me. I told him that my parents were strict and didn't even know where I was. The next night, I was in the living room watching TV when the doorbell rang.
I met her at her house, and then she dropped me off at the mall and told me to have a great time. My mom answered, and I heard his voice ask, "Is Yasmine home? My mother started screaming, "Who are you and why are you at this house?
" I kind of knew I had the A year passed, and the following summer, I was chatting on Facebook with a guy I knew from middle school.
I remember large suitcases and both of my sisters weeping as we said goodbye.
I cried too, but I was more mad at them for leaving me.
When he wrote, "Want to go to Chipotle this Friday? I was super excited and typed back, "Sure." I told my parents that I was going to see my 24-year-old cousin.
She was the only person I was ever allowed to visit. At the end of our date, I told him that I'd be in touch over Facebook, and floated home.