I sit tonight at a probably 10-foot long table alone, along a wall in Starbucks, because when I got here, it was the only available table near an outlet. I haven’t plugged my computer in yet, distracted so far by the patrons to my right.
A stepmother and adult stepdaughters. They sip seasonal beverages and discuss the family’s patriarch. Who they suspect is involved in infidelity. Who has been unfaithful before. Who isn’t happy.
“I can’t say I’m in it for the long haul,” stepmother warned. Stepdaughters understood. I understand, too.
This — a real life representation of relationships at nearly their worst (It could be still worse.) — hurts my heart. And my soul. And my head. This is why I write what I write. Continue reading “Why I write what I write.”