So let me just say that the woman on the couch with her tongue down my dad’s throat was nothing like my mother. She had straggely oily blonde hair and a muffin top from trying to squeeze herself into what looked to be clothes from American Eagle that clashed with her orange tan.
They didn’t see me so I quietly snuck up the stairs and closed my bedroom door, leaning against my bed and began debating. Should I tell Mom? Or should I just play stupid and act shocked if she ever catches him herself.
I played stupid.
And I didn’t have to play stupid for too long. Dad didn’t realize that Mom was capable of coming home early for work one day. He also didn’t realize either that she was capable of heartbreak.
A week later she caught something at work. She ignored her colleagues’ wise words of bedrest and continued working, sleeping in open rooms at the hospital.
A week later she was found dead.
The doctors said it was the flu she caught. But I think she died of a broken heart.