Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

My Father Was a Cheater

I was 6  when my mother had enough.  There were no pictures, or tell-tale lipstick stains on his collar.  My mother swore to smelling other women’s perfume, thrifty drug store whore perfume,  but he could always explain it away. Finally the explanations could not quiet her she said no more.

We were driving down Willow Street just passing Pacific Avenue in the blue Toyota station wagon, the first and only new car my mother would ever own.  She saw him walking out of the hotel with this week’s blonde.   This time it was too close to home only a mile, maybe 2. It was impossible to realize that  our world was crashing at that moment. I just remembered how embarrassed I was by my mother’s yelling, hitting, and hysterical crying.  She told him to keep the room and his whore, he wasn’t allowed home anymore.  He must have retorted back, I pay the rent; I’ll come home when I want.

He never wanted.

That was it.  During the divorce I saw him once, by 7 I would never see him again. It’s be over 30 years.  He lives in the same city, yet has never seen the wreckage he left behind. He has no idea that my mother is all the things he didn’t marry and maybe a few he did.  He has no idea that I measure my value by a man who leaves me in a hotel room to get home to his wife and daughter. I  know what the blonde knew. . .Only a fatherless daughter never stops looking for a father.

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