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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields



From the phone call to now in the airport, surrounded by people, I’ve never felt so alone.

Daddy understood me. Although a girl, I was his mini-me. We had the same smile. The same hazel eyes. The same giggle. He always made me feel as if I could do anything—even climb K2 if I’d had a mind to.

“A widow-maker,” Mom said, with great self-importance, as if she hadn’t—mentally—left him years ago.

Evilly, I wished her, the adulteress, the drama queen, dead.

The last time we’d spoken, Daddy cajoled: “I’ve forgiven her, can’t you?”

No. Never.


Sascha Darlington


21 replies »

    • I think “widow-maker” may be American slang. It’s the type of massive heart attack that men seem to experience. So, it was the father who died. As always, I appreciate your comments, Neil! 🙂

  1. Several layers. A dislike of a daughter for her mother. A mother who was not compatible with her husband. A husband who loved adventure and trained his daughter to be her own person. All different ideas captured in so few words. Beautiful!

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