Growing up had never been easy for me. Left and right, I'd see men cradling their daughters, looking over at them as though they were the most precious thing in the entire world. But when it came to my father, I only ever knew hate.

My oldest brother, Matthew, had hated my father with such a raging passion, that it had been passed onto the rest of us McCoy's.

My mother had tried to differ our thinking, trying her very best to install into our brains that it wasn't okay to hate family. No matter what they had done to you—and even if they deserved it.

Whenever she'd say this, Matthew would scoff beneath his breath, careful not to he heard by his understanding, yet scornful mother. "Don't listen to her," he'd say, "that guy who was supposed our dad, left all six of his children. We're meant to hate him."

And for many, many years after that, I had believed him. I had believed him so firmly, that the hate began to blind me. Blind me so thoroughly, that by the time I had turned sixteen, I had a raging hate for any man who'd bat an eye my way.

Any crush, was easily dismissed by Matthew's words, any of my drunken hookups were quickly forgotten, due to that pure fuel inside of me.

And I remember so vividly, that one summer after my senior year in high school, my mother had walked in on one of my many, many flings—but this time, I had been busy with a man both married, and twice my age.

There was no other day in my disposable life that I had felt so ashamed. And whenever returning to those familiar thoughts, I can't help but think about that man—whose name I had never learned.

His wife, potential children, and any other responsibility he might have lost that fateful day. While it all being all of my fault.

My mother had blown her top, shouting at the man at the very top of her lungs.

At that very moment, I had been mortified, coiling into the restroom as the man and my mother argued. Her argument, was that I'd been sexually assaulted, considering our notable age-gap, and the fact that I hadn't even reached eighteen, yet.

He had began crying, crying that he had no idea I was that young. Lie, I remember thinking. I had told him my exact age before we had even locked lips.

As soon as the terrified man had left, my mother cried to me. Cried to me over the fact that for some reason, her little girl had been broken. So broken over her absent father, that I had resorted to getting an older man's attention elsewhere.

This is what both she, and my most-definitely not at all qualified therapist called—daddy issues.

During one of our sessions, she had cried once more, explaining that she had no idea of what I was going through, due to my younger brother, Cole's mental illnesses. She had been so wrapped up with him, that I was slowly drowning in the midst.

Later that year, I had been accepted into a college in Georgia.

Everyone in my family was ecstatic—all of those other than Matthew, who had been in prison for already a few years leading up to that point. But that was a subject that nobody in my family—especially not Beth, would be able to speak of.

My mother had hugged me long, and tight, tears of joy streaming down her pale cheeks at the fact that I'd be the first person to go to college in my entire family.

And at this point in my life, I was finally beginning to accept the fact that I wasn't a horrible person, just a little rough around the edges.

And somehow, someway, confidence was my best friend, and whenever a guy would bat an eye toward me, I'd smile politely, but make sure it was known to him, that I wasn't at all interested in any kind of fling.

I spent my days packing, and my nights laughing loudly with the friends I'd made at my very first summer job.

But that particular day, at that very airport, where I was forced to say goodbye to all four of my siblings was simply the hardest thing I'd ever had to do—considering the fact that there was no way I'd be able to say goodbye to the fifth.

My younger sister, Monica, who was coincidentally my best friend in the entire world, had hugged me tight, while my other younger sister, Beth, had scowled, while crossing both arms across her chest.

"Don't forget about us over here while you're doing big shit, Care, okay? And you just wait, next year, I'll be down there with you."

I only smiled, and nodded gracefully, "of course."

Once I had stepped foot on the plane, I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't stop that smile from etching itself across my lips, as I watched the plane leave the ground in a seeming hurry.

I was ready. Ready to leave behind everything I'd ever messed up in my life, ready for something bigger than I, or anyone else in my family had ever experienced.

And sure, if I would have asked my mother what her greatest experience was, she would've merely said that having children was the highlight of her life.

But I knew, I knew that it was this. I knew that it was the thrill of seeing new things, the beauty of leaving behind all of your mistakes, and making new ones.

The next few months were tiring. I worked, went to school, then worked, then went to school some more. All while still finding time to myself. Meaning, every Saturday morning, I'd sit out in an abandoned farm I'd came across while jogging.

I'd sit there for hours, overlooking the cities, and trees, where families and others lived, totally unaware of me, and me totally unaware of them.

But one particular Saturday, I had been sitting there, bible in one hand, and a highlighter in the other. I had spent hours highlighting verses out of my favorite sections since the crack of dawn.

Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, and built figure move hastily, they seemed completely oblivious to anyone sitting and watching.

But there I was, sitting and watching him as he tried to mowed the tall, green grass that I had already settled onto. I watched as the muscles flexed on his dark-skinned back, as he struggled to get the machine started.

I debated on offering him a hand, seeing as one of my brothers, Nick had taught how to mow a lawn when I was fourteen. Why, I have no idea, but at the time, he had thought it would pay off some day.

And I guess it did.

I waltzed over to the man, and shyly began to speak. "D-Do you need some help, sir?"

He turned quickly, shouting a quick, "shit!" As he tumbled over, due to being completely surprised by my presence.

As he fell, I crouched down beside him, and began to apologize profusely, all while still chucking loudly—him doing the exact same. "I'm so, so sorry, I was just wondering if you needed a hand?"

He had taken a deep breath, and smiled that same smile that I would soon fall in love with, his darkened dimples pulsing through. "Yeah, thanks. I'm not really one for chores, but . . ."

"Well, I'm Caroline." I had smiled, and jutted a hand forward.

He had reciprocated. "Gavin."

So, I had given him a hand. That day, then, the next, then, the next. Until eventually, he had asked me out on our infamous first date.

The date where I would learn every little thing about the man that I would inevitably fall for. And if anyone asked if I was in it because of his incredible looks, I would deny it. Gavin was unlike any other man I'd ever been with.

He was kind, sweet, opened up doors for me, asked for permission before ever even splurging a kiss at my cheek. He was the ultimate gentleman—and alike me, he wanted a family.

The next few years were the best of my life. I went out with friends, on the rarest of occasions, worked hard to achieve my bachelors degree, and put my absolute all in my very first real relationship.

Gavin had been the light at the end of a very dark tunnel for me. And sure, lots of people say this while falling in love, but whenever I was with him, things seemed to fall into place.

And when I eventually got into nursing school—back in New York, my home, Gavin packed every single thing he owned into one truck, and claimed to love me more than he could ever love Georgia.

So, we said goodbye to his mother, during one loving, and faithful dinner, where the absolute love of my life would get down on one knee, and propose.

I had, of course, said yes, and explained to him that I wanted to get married right away. Despite always having wishes as a young girl, to have a long engagement.

Only two months later, we married with all of my friends and family surrounding us, although, my biggest brother, who was always supposed to walk me down the aisle, wasn't there to do so.

But still, we were happy. I attended school, he began working a degree of his own, and soon—I was expecting.

Willow-Grace was the epitome of a little girl, who looked exactly like her father. Day in and day out, I'd stare down at her dark curls, and caramel colored skin tone.

She was beautiful, and sure, she looked a little different from the rest of my siblings, but they fell in love with abnormality. And soon, Beth had said, "thank God, we needed some color."

I had laughed loudly, and watched as Gavin cradled her in his arms, looking down at her though she were the most precious thing in the entire world.

This was when earlier thoughts from my childhood began to resurface, and I was grateful that my daughter would have a father who loved her, supported her, and would never, ever leave her.