AN: I appreciate knowing that people notice still when I update – but also I appreciate knowing that people are so interested in the rest. No, that wasn't the end. I said it was a drabble. A thought. Something to entice and return to you, the reader. I know I will never get to finish this story in the entirety I need to. I don't have it in me anymore to make the connection from the hospital to where my mind sits now. I just know where I wanted it to end up. And this is it.

Chapter 20
Dreams do come true

My name is Emily Stark. I was born in a small town outside of Moscow. I lived the first 5 years of my life in a tiny apartment with little food. When I was 5 years old, my mother died and left me with my dying grandmother. She hated herself until she died for having to give me up to my biological father – a man with the last name of Stark. My grandmother hated him until her death because of how he ruined my mother's life. But was I really something so terrible? Is that how I was seen – a terrible burden? I don't remember much from then. I only remember the light that came into my life after I left Russia. I remember talking ceilings, monsters wearing heavy clothes and a shiny red man. I remember a strawberry-haired woman fighting with a dark-haired man, but they always smiled. I remember a dark-skinned man who I could always convince to buy me a new toy. I remember a big, strong man that took me home from school that would take me to get ice cream. I remember a woman who understood me when I cried and how curly her red hair was.

I remember when I first saw the light that I was always fascinated with.

"What was your prompt for this?"

"We were asked to write an essay about how our past has affected our lives and how it will affect our future."

"And what are you going to be centering on?"

"I haven't really decided yet…"

"You need to. I like it, but you need to narrow it down I think. Talk about your life in general, but then get more to the point about what you want to talk about." She who I have called Mom since I came here handed back the notebook paper with my first draft written on it and smiled at me. She was working in her office in the house for once, and I had a day off from school for some teacher thing.

I started to walk off, but I stopped before I got outside of the doors.

"Hey, Mom, when's Dad coming home?"

"You know your father. He's off doing something or another with his friends."

"Can I call him?"

"Sure. If you get lucky enough, he'll actually hear it."

I left her to her work and went back up to my room. It changed a bit since I came here originally. It wasn't lavender or covered in girlish flowers anymore. I had it panted back to a basic color of light tan and had decorated with pictures of friends, posters of cute boys and pictures of fashion designs I liked. For my fifteenth birthday, I had gotten a sewing machine that was on my dad-made desk in the corner by the large windows. I must have had some of my mom in me, Dad always said. He knew nothing about fashion, though design was something he understood better.

Mom was always helpful. She always wore latest designs for work and took me shopping. We're supposed to go to fashion week this coming year! I know she's not my real mom. She didn't give birth to me. As far as I have known for a long time, though, she's Mom. That's just her name.

I try to keep true to my real Mom and the family I once had a long time ago. I do still read and watch Russian things. I try to keep up in my language. Mom now has always pushed me to continue that. She says it might help me in the future someday. Being bilingual helps a lot of people.

I had my own phone, TV, computer – my room was a teenager's dream. But I rarely spent time there. If Dad was home, I was downstairs with him. Not really doing anything – usually homework or watching TV, but I just liked being down there. Fashion was my love, but I also liked helping Dad do things with the suit. Occasionally, we worked on this old car he said he and his dad worked on. He told me old stories and I learned about how the suit worked and how engines make cars run.

But the main reason I ever spent time down there was to be with him.

He was gone a lot. Saving the world meant travelling pretty regularly. I was always happy when he was home. I know normal teenage girls want nothing to do with their parents, but when your parent is Iron Man it's a little different.

I couldn't keep the boys off of me. They always were asking to come over, or wanting to hang out. Some of them I didn't even know their names. I knew why – they wanted to meet my Dad. I didn't see them as anything but annoying idiots. I have one guy friend that I've known for years, and he's the only guy that I'll be taking back to meet my father, thank you.

No, we're not together. We're just friends. Dad keeps reminding him that he knows where he lives and has no problem working as an amateur surgeon. I keep reminding him that's not necessary.

"Jarvis, will you call Dad for me please?"

"Certain, Miss Emily."

It's still cool that the ceiling works as my own butler.

"Do you need homework help again? Or do you want a new purse, because I just bought a new one-"

I could hear explosions, yelling, things hitting metal – definitely in a fight. But he still picked up for some reason. Though, he has helped me do algebra homework before over the phone during a fight he was in.

"Dad, no! I just want to know when you're coming home. Where are you?"

"Oh, no where special. Dealing with a small alien infest-TAtion, nothing huge. I'll be home to tuck you in and read you a bedtime story. Goodnight, Moon?"

"Kay. And you better be here!"

"Yeah, I'll work on it."

"Love you."

"Love you TOO. Come here you f-"

I could tell when the phone hung up. And I think Jarvis did that on purpose as well.

I went downstairs with my drawing book, my phone and my homework and waited in the basement. Besides, Dad kept a drafting table down there I could use to design.

Mom dragged me out of there after 11. I did have school the next day. I fought, because I had no interest in going to bed until I knew if Dad had kept his promise. I was old enough to stay up anyway.

I did what I was told and went to my room – but I didn't go to sleep. I kept on looking through designer websites at new lines and what colors were in. I'm sure Jarvis told Mom I was still awake.

I fell asleep on my table at some point. I got woken up at some time in the early morning by my father shaking my shoulder and shooing me over to my bed.

After shedding my jeans, I crawled under the blanket and he pulled it up to my shoulders.

"Still want that bedtime story?"

I grumbled, though I barely remember it.

He was walking out of the room when I reached up and made him stop.

"Dad…"

"What, Emily." He looked tired in the dim light. Beaten, sweaty, bruised in a few places. That's how I most remembered him.

"Thanks. For coming home."

He smiled and shut the door behind him. I went right back to sleep.