From the phone call to now in O’Hare, surrounded by noisy travelers, I’ve never felt so alone.
Daddy understood me. I was his mini-me. We had the same smile. The same hazel eyes. The same giggle. He made me feel as if I could do anything—even climb K2 if I wanted. Become an artist? “You’ll be a lady Picasso.”
“A widow-maker,” Mother said, self-importance bloating her tone. To her, he’d been dead for years.
If only it had been her, the adulteress, the drama queen, instead.
The last time we’d spoken, Daddy cajoled: “I’ve forgiven her, can’t you?”