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I’m about to turn into the driveway, next to my mother’s
green VW bug.
I calculate the time.
She shouldn’t be home yet.
Maybe her shift was cut short. That happens sometimes.
But the truck . . . what the hell is it doing here?
The front door of the house opens, and two figures emerge.
“Oh no,” Caroline says. I’m guessing she saw them, too.
I go past the house, looking in the rearview mirror, where
I can see my mother standing in the doorway wearing a robe,
kissing her ex-husband, my sisters’ father. He’s a big guy, at
least six-two; she looks so small next to him. I swear under my
breath, and continue driving.
“Daddy,” Margaret whispers.
I don’t have to look in the rearview mirror to know my
sisters are shrinking in their seats, cowering, hoping not to
be seen.
If I’d stopped at the Tiny E for ice cream, like my mother
told the girls I would, we wouldn’t be in this position.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
What’s he doing at our house?
Why the hell is she kissing him?
I breathe through the multitude of emotions rising within
me, burning in my chest.
And why do I have the feeling she wasn’t really working
today?
I’ll circle the block, and if they’re still saying good-bye
by the time we’re coming around again, I’ll have to interrupt
them. It’d be better if the girls didn’t have to witness it, but
someone has to tell the guy to get lost . . . and stay lost.
He’s not supposed to be here. Court ordered.

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