Dread fills me. I know that no good is going to come from opening up the letter. But I open it anyway.
It’s from my dad, in his distinctive writing, blaming me for something I did not do. I immediately call both of their homes and leave them a message.
I’m really mad … and really hurt.
My parents have no short-term memory, yet the one thing they remember about me today is that I betrayed them. They wrote it down, sent it with a dual signature and dropped it the mail. It explodes in me, more than on me today.
I know I will never be able to right this. I try to soothe myself by considering that my mom confabulated a story and has convinced my dad of it – but that still doesn’t make me feel better.
We keep hoping that our repeated letters, calls and meetings will seep in and they will eventually acknowledge and reorganize their lives. We don’t even seem close and already I’ve become a horrible daughter. They say it only gets harder. Incapacitated.