:: Monica ::
I almost wept at the once-familiar smells of his famous cheese potatoes when I entered the kitchen. Mom and I had always loved when Daddy made breakfast because of them. He smiled at me when I came down and I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured myself a glass of orange juice, sitting at the table. We didn't speak. I just listened to the sounds of him cooking, sipping my juice and enjoying the atmosphere.
"Grab us some plates, will you?"
I got two plates from the cabinet and held them as he spooned scrambled eggs, potatoes and sausage links onto them, then set them on the table. Dad sat down as I put a fork, knife and napkin in front of him and we dug in, the only noises being those of us enjoying the meal. I got up once to get the juice and filled his glass and mine again, then got up a second time to put the plates in the sink.
"So tell me."
I sighed heavily, knowing that this was coming but still unready to tell him. But I told him. In between anger and tears, I unraveled the story of my life, trying not to look at him as I wove my tale of woe. I moved swiftly through the exciting times of being free and traveling with my lover, the painful times of my miscarriages and the heartbreaking times of being cuckolded by my husband's mistress.
"I left with what I could pack in fifteen minutes and I don't have any money, Daddy. He took my last paycheck before I left. He said that I owed it to him for putting up with my shit." I couldn't help crying. I was partially reliving the moment and I was angry at myself for allowing it to happen. "He left the house and went to