confusion over it all broke my heart. To be honest, it also plucked my fucking nerves, because she couldn’t seem to make sense of the most obvious and basic shit. At the beginning of this semester in Psych One we learned the term cognitive dissonance—the confusion that arises in a person when what they believe and understand about life doesn’t line up with what’s happening in front of their face. My father’s affair. American Holy War. Cognitive dissonance. I get it.
My aunt Lilly, my mother’s little sister, has been her adviser, and therapist, because she had been cheated on too. Lilly understands what they call the Shattering. Apparently there’s a shorthand for survivors of betrayal. Hope I never need to learn it. Just wanna say that I do not believe, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that every guy out there is a cheating dick. I think there are actual human males in the world who wouldn’t betray their partners. Just, I might have to move to a different zip code.
I’m glad my mother has Aunt Lilly. Especially in those early days, I was so relieved when she came to visit us, because I couldn’t stand when Shelley would stop in the middle of dinner and say things like, “Remember, Ror, how Daddy would hold my face and say, ‘You are mine, Shelley Miller.’ He did that. Didn’t he do that?” It was like she’d lost confidence in actual reality. What could I say? Yup. I remember, Shell. I mean, Sherman did things like that all the time. I’d loved that cheesy, cornball crap between them. I believed in it.
Shelley cried so much that first year. Out of nowhere, she’d just start bawling uncontrollably. I heard her describe it to Aunt Lilly as a crygasm—full-body waves of intense, gut-wrenching pain. But really? Soul mate. Soul mate? What a laughable and tragically naive idea. Are you fucking kidding me? You are mine. I am yours. Words. My father wanted to have his cake and eat it too, and in the end he decided he preferred the young actress slice over the aging soul mate slice.
Aunt Lilly, whose husband left her on their fifth anniversary for a girl he met online, says people like Sherman and her ex—not just men but all people who cheat—commit love fraud. She thinks there should be jail for that. Like, why does a guy who lies and cheats in business have to compensate for the losses but cheaters in a marriage get off scot-free? I see Lilly’s point, but ethics jail is a scary idea.
When I think about it, though? Sherman did commit murder. He killed something fundamental in my mother. And definitely arson. He torched my family. Grand theft? He stole my innocence, which has nothing to do with my virginity.
I turned to God when Sherman left us. I was still a believer back then, just like the rest of my hive. I went to the chapel every day for weeks, praying for my daddy to come home. Praying for my mommy’s heart to heal. And for the fiery death of Sugar Tits. When prayer after prayer went unanswered, I got kinda pissed. I should’ve just made voodoo dolls and put my faith in those badass Santería gods. Anyway, I never caught up with Christian God. He was no doubt slammed, as usual, with major American sporting events.
After a while my mother and I didn’t talk about my father except when she asked me to please see him for dinner in hopes he’d put an overdue alimony check in my hands when he dropped me off from Sushi Planet. He’s a bit of a deadbeat. Forgets to send money. Thank God Shell got the house in the divorce. Thank God she didn’t sell it, even though I know she wanted to move. Aunt Lilly couldn’t understand why we stayed in Hidden Oaks. She wanted us to come home. By home, she meant Canada.
“Too much. Too soon,” Shell had said. She knew I’d die if I lost everything at once—my dad, my house, my best friends. She put me first. Like always.
Over the past couple of months my mother’s started working from home, sitting at her computer for hours on end. At least, I think she’s working. She says she’s helping a colleague from the old days with immigration consultations. She almost never talks on the phone, except to Aunt Lilly. I admit I’ve been avoiding my mother lately, because sadness. Just. So. Done.