One day at a time

I hope that by writing this it will help me heal. I know that I need to take one day at a time, which is easier said than done sometimes.
Dad and I could talk about anything, yes anything. When the days were too much, I could call Dad and he helped me through all of it. Now I can't call him anymore. Although I do think that he has been here with me. Miss Olivia (my six year old daughter) and I have been having good mornings before school, which before Dad died were few and far between. Dad always got a kick out of her morning antics and couldn't wait until she was a teenager just to see how her daddy was going to handle her, especially when he has had trouble dealing with our 15 year old son and his teenage issues. So for us to be having smooth mornings is nothing short of a miracle.
Dad and my mother had been having "issues" for awhile. April 17th would have been their 45th wedding anniversary, they didn't quite make it.
My mother has been calling her ex-husband since the new year, making plans to leave Dad and go to live with the "good-guy" who only beat her when he was drunk. To go be with the "good-guy" who only went to jail for the first time because he tried to molest some young girl he snatched off the street because he was drunk (or high). Because he is such a "good-guy", none of his biological children want anything to do with him. It didn't matter that Dad only wanted her to be happy. It was what he lived for and what he died for, I know that the only way Dad would have killed himself is because it was the only way he could make her happy.
Dad called my cell phone the night he died. I missed his call by about 5 minutes, my daughter was in the tub and I didn't hear the phone (it was in the other room). Sometimes I can't help but think that if I had answered that call maybe, just maybe, none of this would have happened. Maybe he would have come to me instead of shooting himself. I just wonder why I couldn't be enough for him. I love him more than anyone else. My mother couldn't even make sure he had his own cross for his funeral visitation, "oh, I never even thought about it" she said. How could someone not think of his cross, it was so much a part of him, he was the pastor of our church for a time. The book of James was his favorite book of the Bible, I don't think that my mother or brother could tell you that, but I can. My 15 year old son knows what Dad's cross meant to him, he was just as upset as I was that they didn't get Papa his own cross. Mom couldn't even be bothered to change a doctors appointment so that she could be at the visitation on time. Always it has been about her, and it still is.
She couldn't even be bothered the night Dad died to call the authorities and let them know he left the house with a gun, why should she bother, he was more than likely dead already.
I have anger, lots of anger towards my mother and brother. I don't understand how people can be so selfish and self-absorbed. My brother knew Dad left with a gun and told my mom that he hoped Dad killed himself with it. I called them both looking for Dad and neither one of them cared that I couldn't find him and that he wouldn't answer his phone. They wanted him dead and now he is, that way they both get what they want, my brother keeps me from having any of Dad's farmland and my mother gets the money from the sale of the farm so that she can go live with her "good-guy" ex-husband.
I don't hate them, I did the night of April 6th, but after I saw how peaceful Dad looked in his casket the hate was gone. I know that he is happy now.
We have had this conversation: "You need to be happy for me when I die, because my body won't hurt any more, and I will finally be where we have been trying to go all these years." "But Dad, I need you, I don't think I am strong enough to live without you." "Yes, you are. You have to be, Zane and Olivia need you. You have to be there for them." "Okay, I'll try really hard, but can I be sad and cry for me?" "Yeah, but only for awhile, life goes on, and you have to too."
So I'll go on and take one day at a time, for Zane and Olivia and for me and for Dad.