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?”