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They drove closer, unsure of what would happen next.
In the Christian parenting books my dad wrote, we were always the most perfect devout family.They pulled up to him like they were waiting at a stoplight.The camera recorded its own reflection in the dark glass as they waited.Mom had graduated with a degree in home economics and thought it was cruel when other families allowed their kids to eat dinner in front of the TV.She had a lot of opinions on how other people should raise their children and had been outraged when our church opened a daycare center.Mom would rush to greet him, tearing off her oven mitts so she could take his briefcase. “Dad’s had a long day and he’s very tired.” If we were too loud or demanding, he’d be quick to let us know. “They know to respect me there.” I’ve read the books he wrote about my early childhood and wondered who this man was that claimed to have held me on his lap.
I don’t remember these touching moments, nor do I recall any of the stories about him tossing a football with my brothers in the front yard.
When he realized it was his two sons in the car, and not the guy who had responded to his personal ad, he hit the gas and his tires screeched as he took off in the opposite direction.
They sped after him until he stopped just as abruptly as he’d taken off.
I needed to believe the lie and continue being the smiling daughter of a godly man.
To accept the truth was to lose everything I’d ever known and I was afraid of what I would be left with. I hid the secret inside of me but it began to take a toll.
I was sitting in our family room with sunlight streaming through the windows and my childhood artwork decorating the walls, but I felt like a dark part of myself had been exposed.