My friend/chauffeur/bodyguard and later in the night she had added therapist to her list was quite the hero to have sat in silence while I raged on for the entirety of the car ride home. It was that rant when you ask questions and then immediately answer them; we have all done it . “What kind of a person speaks to someone that way?” I was almost screaming at this point, “A soulless one that’s who.” There I was asking and answering my own questions and the whole while getting no closer to the answers that beckoned in my heart.

A note! I had a flash of a memory when I spoke to the policeman on the phone and he had said something referring to a note and that it was one of their confirming pieces of evidence to rule it a suicide. I made a mental note to ask Kim about said note tomorrow. Yes, because that is what I should be doing in my current state, making mental notes; those will surely be effective.

My friend dropped me at Mimi’s so that I could “try and get some rest.” Funny how everyone uses that phrase isn’t it? What they really mean is, clearly you won’t sleep but please lay in bed, toss and turn until you become so mentally and physically exhausted your body shuts down from the pain. I suppose “try and get some rest” does sound a bit more PC.

The porch light was on, as always, and I could see the dim glow from the television set in the living room bearing it’s light through the front window. It was as if to say “we are always waiting for you.” It meant what it had always meant, for my 23 years and I am sure the years of my mother beforehand; Papa had waited up.

I let myself in the house and Papa greeted me with a warm smile; “Doing okay Babe?” he asked, although I am quite sure my pulsating vein in my forehead and my wobbly stance had already proven to him otherwise. I answered anyways “Yea Papa, I am okay.” Now I know I have said before that I don’t lie, and that was something instilled in me by my mother; but this was not lying. This was a person who could not wrap her brain around the last 72 hours trying desperately to put on a content smile for her grandfather so that at least one of us had a chance at sleep tonight. That was all he needed to hear, and he switched the television off, kissed my forehead and headed up to bed.

I filled a glass of water in the kitchen and followed Papa’s lead upstairs. I went to the bathroom to wash the product from my face that had helped me to prove to the world today that I was something less than broken. I stole a glance at my reflection in the mirror for the first time in a few days; and I surely didn’t like what I saw. The woman I saw was not at all the woman I was raised to be. She had lost her strength, her drive, her smile; in fact she had lost all capabilities of showing emotion. Wiping the concealer from my face revealed the purple circles that represented the lack of sleep and removing the lipstick showed how all the color had truly begun to fade from my face. I could be a fantastic before and after ad for a makeup company at the moment; if this train of wreckage I have encountered since arriving home continues much longer, I might consider it. But still, bless the makeup companies for allowing us to find some ways to mask our emotions.

I headed to “my room.” It’s funny because both of my Aunt’s, my mother and my twin cousins all refer to it as their room. We never argue about who it truly belongs to because the truth is, it is the room that has housed us all in our time of need; and we have all had our time of need. Nothing in the room has changed, and no one would have it any other way. Just like the glow from the television light, it was always there.  I crawled into the old brass bed and heard the familiar creaking sounds that escaped with my movement. I sent one quick text to Kim; “Have to see you in the morning, it is urgent.” I then clicked the light off and laid my throbbing, spinning head on the pillow. I asked one more question aloud before closing my eyes, but this time it was one I could not answer for myself; “Dad, what have you done?”

 

Safety first! My friend and backup picked me up that evening to chauffeur me to the local wine bar, Lola’s. I made a small joke inside my mind that she should be making double time for playing the role as both the chauffeur and the bodyguard; the friendship portion was free.

We entered the bar, illuminated only by candlelight. Just as my imagination had led me to believe, we were the only patrons. Another internal smile when I thought of checking the exits and having a plan for when the shit really went down. Okay, enough of the television plays, this was only going to be a platonic conversation…right?

I ordered a cocktail, lord only knows a dirty martini would get me through this, and sat waiting and watching as my gaze switched from my watch to the door and back again.  Finally, in through the blustering wind came the woman who I thought was going to be my answers to so many questions.

She took a seat to my right, opposite of my friend/bodyguard, and made the normal amounts of small talk. I wonder why people feel the need to go through those trivial motions; we all know what we are there for so let’s just get to it. Nevertheless, I played along, talking about the shock of winter weather coming from Texas…. yeah, that’s the reason for my current shock.

Suddenly, she began to cry. She blubbered through her words of how much she loved him and missed him and how she didn’t understand what had happened. Listen, I can certainly understand the pain of loosing someone you cared about, but I wanted to reach across the deserted bar, grab her face between my hands and scream “pull it together you nut, this is my father we are talking about!” I think for a moment I actually saw myself do that, and much worse. However, when I resumed soul and mind back into body I found that I was still seated on my bars-stool, no evidence of movement.

She carried on for a bit until I finally interrupted to ask her to walk me through the events of that evening. Her story was similar to that I had heard from Kim, and I listened to her every word as if attempting to make a mental recording of everything she said. Maybe I had liquid courage, or maybe I was just that full of anger but I didn’t hold any of my internal questions back at that point.

“When you heard the gunshot through the phone, why didn’t you go running to the house? Wasn’t there a part of you that needed to know if there was any chance of saving someone you “loved.” I asked her. My tone was much more frank and cold than I had intended, but like I said, anger was present in that room.

Her response was that she was “paralyzed in fear.” And that she didn’t know the proper response. She said she thought she had done the right thing by dialing 911.

“You will never know if you could have saved him,” I explained to her. “How can that possibly sit well with you?

Her tears spouted again, and once again I found myself wanting to slam her head against the wooden edge of the bar screaming for her to get it together! This is my time, my moment, I have not a care in the world what you feelings are ! You didn’t care enough to walk 100 yards across the street! Why should I care about the pain you are supposedly feeling now?!

I was finally able to gain a bit of control over my thoughts and ask her what the initial fight that spurred the event was even about? She explained that a trip to her hairdresser revealed that my father had been seeing another woman other than her. Amy Ripso was her name, and I had met her before. (At least she was older than I). She confronted my father and Amy and the truth had been disclosed. She expressed her pain and noted that was the reason for their altercation on the evening in question.

Moving the conversation away from her (selfish pain in my ass) and back to the answers I was so desperately seeking, she walked me through similar events that had been explained earlier by Kim. As she explained her story she let me know that following the police finding the body she didn’t know what to do so she called Amy because she lived just a few blocks down Park Avenue. Don’t all women call the other woman in the life of the man they love during a time of crisis? I mean, the other woman would be my absolute first choice as a shoulder to cry on. What the hell kind of game is unfolding here?

As I forced down the rest of the second dirty martini I finally decided to ask the questions that I had intended for this meeting in the first place. I explained to Ms. McCraben that as a family we both wanted and needed to move forward with after death arrangements. Things such as church vs. funeral hall service, burial vs. cremation and division of assets. I informed her that we were missing a piece of the will and inquired if in their moments of intimate conversation (the bile rose in my throat as I uttered these words), if possibly he had shared any information with her.

In the most dry and monotone voice I have ever heard come from a human being, McCraben responded “Oh, the will; I have a copy of that.” Be it the second martini or the the obnoxious frank tone in which she had just delivered the news, I had to use my free hand to steady myself from falling off the bar-stool.

“What the hell do you mean you have a copy of it?” My voice was a bit higher octave than I had intended and I was suddenly grateful for the absence of an audience in the bar. I saw a smile smile curve at the side of her mouth and I know my bodyguard/friend must have noticed the same because I suddenly felt her strong steady hand on my shoulder.

“Well I am sure you are aware that the current copy of the will is missing a page, a very important page that my family needs. Have you any idea where I might be able to obtain the page?” Even as I asked the question, I felt my insides threatening to come out. the prospect of even sitting here and having this conversation with this disgusting excuse for a woman was enough to make me want to waterboard her with multiple batches of dirty martinis; but now that would just be a waste… of good alcohol of course.

Her response came just as curt as the last, although this one was dripping with just a hint of entitlement. ” I didn’t bring the copy of the will with me, but I know the denominations to which you are referring.” With the most coy and gratifying look on her face, McCraben stated ” it says 25% of the estate is to go to your sister Kiera, 25% to you and 50% to me.” She finished her sentence and turned back her glass of red wine. I flicked my high heel on the corner of my stool to spin myself to face my friend. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?” I had known this friend long enough that she knew I was giving her an opportunity to remove herself from the current conversation and giver plausible deniability should this escalate further. Spinning back around to face the hideous monster of a human being that sat next to me, I took the final swig from martini #2 and stood.

I poised myself the best I could, begging myself internally to remember what I had truly come for; answers. I leaned in close so that only McCraben could hear my soft but firm voice. “You mean to tell me that we have sat here for two hours, while I watched your fake tears being forced from your eyes and I listened to every part of your pathetic accounts of the evening and you were sitting on this information all night?”

Her voice had moved from dry and blunt to almost giddy…. “I figured you would ask at some point.”

My friend was arriving back from her trip to the restroom just as I was prying my nails from the wooden edge of the bar. “Well then, I guess we are done here.” I turned to the barkeep and smiled, “Drinks are on her tonight” I stated, and propelled by liquid courage and balanced every so slightly by the arm of my friend, I strutted out the front door.

 

More research into the lyrical mastermind of Mr. Bob Dylan lent itself to finding a title to this post. The similarities are a bit uncanny, and once again I am entranced by the magnitude of his words.

“This song, which comes in at just under nine minutes, is well known for its rather befuddling plot. While Bob Dylan fans, nor Songfacts, are yet to come to a fixed decision on its one true meaning, this is what we have managed to decipher: The song is occupied by multiple archaic characters, including the enigmatic bank robber, “Jack of Hearts.” This charming rogue seduces two women, “Lily” and “Rosemary,” both of whom are romantically linked to “Big Jim,” the wealthiest, greediest man in town. Big Jim is ultimately murdered by Rosemary, who is subsequently hung for her crime. Meanwhile, Jack of Hearts escapes into the night having accomplished his robbery, leaving Lily alone to ponder the events that have taken place.”

I sat on the bed with Kim, wondering what could possibly warrant a conversation behind closed doors. What came to light next made me wish I hadn’t asked that question.

Kim explained to me that my father had been dating Kim McCraben* during the time of his death. I knew this name as soon as she uttered it, but I had a difficult time placing her. Let that be an insight as to how insignificant she was in my life. I had flashes of a local coffee shop, and a plain looking assistant. I remember thinking that she may have worked for my dad but she was so plain and ordinary that I couldn’t even recall an image of her face.

*name altered as not to protect identify

It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that my beloved father had taken a romantic interest in a girl my age. It was even more difficult to hear her role in the scene as Kim went on.

** It is important to note that as the story progresses I will refer to my wonderful, loving stepmother as Kim, and I will only acknowledge the hideous last name of the selfish little girl my father was dating; McCraben. **

Kim went on with the story she knew….That McCraben and my father had been fighting on the eve of his death. She had made some dramatic scene (as young women often do) about breaking up with him and so she proceeded to invite her friends to her house; the one my father paid for that was located 100yrds across the street from his current residence. My father was upset by their disagreement and was speaking to McCraben on the phone. He told her he had left a note for her on his mailbox and then she heard the gun shot. Her claim was that she had immediately called the police and asked them to respond to her residence. Prior to their arrival however, she went to retrieve the alleged note, which was indeed on the mailbox as he had stated.

I have to pause here and ask the question of the readers, if someone you loved, even someone you used to love, had shot a gun while upset on the phone and you were only 100 yards across the street, what would you have done? I have played this part over and over in mind and I know without a doubt that I would have been hauling ass across the street. Apparently, this was not in the selfish thoughts of McCraben because she sat and waited for the responding officers.

When they arrived and she finally disclosed the situation, the officers went to search my fathers house. Unable to gain entry to the front or back of the home, they finally check the garage. it was here that they discovered his body.

I must admit, the rest of that evenings’ details were either pieced together by the other “players” later, or read in the police report. But was was revealed was that the house appeared to be thrashed, alcohol was spilled around the home, and the hard drive to his computer was thrown outside into the snow rendering it unusable. Those details will be important later, I promise.

I can’t for the life of me imagine how I was able to sit on the bed and listen to this story as long as I did. I watched Kim go through the different states of grieving in a flash before my eyes. She cried, became angry, felt guilty and then cried once again. This was going to be a bigger undertaking than I had even imagined.

Being as it had taken me a few days to arrive in NY, there had been some legal proceedings already put into motion. Kim explained to me that I had to hire an attorney because she wasn’t sure how the estate would be divided. It was then that she disclosed that there was a missing page from the will that was recovered from the safe deposit box. I can recall the dry mouth feeling as I stared at her. What the hell was this, a Law and Order episode? I mean really, I had only mentally prepared for flower arrangements, service requirements and the verse that would be put on those little cards they give away at funerals. Secret young girlfriends, strange police reports, missing will pages; that was a whole mess of crazy that I hadn’t prepared for; but then again,let’s be honest, who could?

After Kim had stopped speaking, I questioned what the next thing to do was. She told me that we had to find out the truth so that the attorney’s could sort everything out. That seemed reasonable enough. The unfortunate portion was that the one person we had to get the answers from, was the one person no one wanted to contact; McCraben. I agreed to reach out to her and see what I could do to move things along. I mean, yes I found the thought of speaking with her and having to sit and breathe the same air as her repulsive, but she was the last person to talk to my father alive. Maybe she would be able to help me better understand the events of the evening and find some answers to the many questions that continued to fill my mind.
Thank goodness for text messaging because I don’t know that I could have achieved any success with a conversation on the phone. For those of you who know me, I don’t hide my emotions well. I worried that had I spoken her on the phone I would have had a temporary bout of turrets in which I would have repeatedly called her a home wrecking whore; clearly a temporary disability when speaking to a same ago woman who had been with you father. But alas, the voiceless messages had saved me and we had agreed to meet at a local wine bar the following evening to “discuss the matter.” Did she really have to phrase it that way? Why was she so void of all emotion anyways? How can you refer to the death of someone you “loved” as a matter? Well, I made sure to pencil her in on my calendar and confirm the time and date.

I realized I was going to have a sit-down with the girl who had last spoken to my father; alone. It was like setting myself up for a scene in a mob movie. I can picture it now, the restaurant would of course be empty, we would be alone and there would be no witness to bear of any conversation or otherwise. Well, maybe I watch too much TV, but I immediately called a friend for back-up anyways. Armed with a best friend and a Xanax, I counted the hours until I would have my first opportunity to hear what I expected was the truth.

I don’t know if I spoke on the drive back to Rochester, I am sure we talked about something. My Aunt Becky is not one to sit in silence, a blessing and a curse as I am sure she would tell you herself, but in this moment it was truly a blessing.

They brought me to Mimi’s, everyone always ends up at Mimi’s. And like every good polish grandmother, no matter the time of day you are met with the biggest hug and a spread of food across the dining room table to match.

She cried as she held me, same as everyone else, and there I stood the quiet asshole once again. Seriously, what was my problem? I have waterworks for everything all the time!

Oh how I did not want to eat. Bless my loving grandmother who had prepared a feast for 20 on her kitchen table, but there was no part of me that wanted to consume food at that moment. You know that feeling when you are so hungover that the smell, sight and even thought of food repulses you? Well at this point I had felt like that for three days.  I even had the pounding headache to match from all the stress. Hell, I even had the blackout moments from days before that were slowly resurfacing as time went on. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the funny kind of stuff you call your friends about 12 hours later and say “remember last night when….” It was more like the shameful memories that you desperately try to put back wherever they came from. The last three days were just like that; memories I fiercely wanted to send back in time.

So this is one of those fuzzy moments, where I can’t exactly remember the timeline. But I do know that on that evening, I made it to my stepmother’s house. I knew that was the place I needed to be; with her and my sister. I knew she had more answers and information, but I also knew there was more pain in that home than I had yet to encounter.

My father and Kim had been together since I was 4. I don’t remember Kim not being a part of my life. They had recently separated, but thankfully, that didn’t shake the relationship I had built with her. When I married three months prior to this, there was the normal dramatics from my father who wanted me to not have Kim at the wedding. I remember this as being one of the first and only times I stood up to him. I wrote him, as I always did. Hey, I was standing up for myself, just not to his face; that was entirely too frightening. In my letter I recall explicitly telling him that he had brought Kim into my life 21 years ago, asked me to love her and I did. Just because he had some trouble with his heart at that time did not mean I was going to change mine. I told him that when I decided to love Kim, it was forever; and I was sticking by that. I am happy to report that he accepted my decision. From this I am sure you can understand the bond we had formed over the years. And why it was going to be so difficult to see her now.

My hand shook on the door, possibly because it was January in Rochester and below freezing, but also because I knew once I opened the door, the pain was going to be real. Kim looked as tired as I felt, but she always managed to stand so strong. As she stood in front of me her eyes revealed the pain that I knew was depriving her body from all it’s life, but her posture told me she was finding strength anywhere possible to meet this event head on. In comparison, I am sure I was hunched over, chin down, legs weak. I had never been one to stand on the front lines like she was able to.

Kim’s family was there; her support system. My Nana and Papa and my aunt. They had also been a part of my life for so long that the love in that room was endless. I paused for a moment to think that although I was so hurt and angry with my father’s actions at the moment, he had brought so many other people into my life to love me. I am thankful for that everyday.

Kiera. How could I see her? She was ten. The thoughts cracked me over the head like a home run in the major leagues. How much did she know? How would she take it? What should I say to her? Will she cry?

Kiera ran to me just as she always did, more happy to see me home than sad for the circumstances. She knew about his death, but her knowledge beyond that was limited. She had her television on in her room and was playing with whatever toy was of interest at that moment. She was so perfectly innocent; I was jealous. For a second I wished I could be ten and free from the mountains of questions and emotions stampeding through my head and causing this nauseating headache. But that only lasted a moment, because I knew that where I had 23 years with my father, she had only 10. Then I cried; sobbed actually. I was no longer the emotionless asshole that stood stiff as a board while everyone hugged me. I was now the blubbering asshole who couldn’t turn it off. Be careful what you wish for I guess.

Kim asked me to her room to talk. Her weary expression told me that I knew only an ounce of the real story. I braced myself as I stood to walk, trying to mirror Kim’s posture and hope that it would bring the strength along with it. One foot in front of the other, I followed her down the hall. Behind that door I would learn the start of the twisted web of lies and deceit that surrounded my father’s death, and begin the harrowing journey that would ultimately last a lifetime.

 

Has anyone ever listened to the song “I am a lonesome hobo” by Mr. Dylan? I do more research on his song lyrics as I write and I just connected with this one. He talks about how quickly things can change, rags to riches and how we shouldn’t accept any one aspect of life as being finite. Isn’t that the truth?

“I know by now you feel alone, more alone than one should ever feel, but you’re not. ” As I sat on the airplane headed back to New York, I replayed those words in my head multiple times. My father had written those words to me about six years ago. For anyone that knew me at 17, well then you would understand that those words came from a letter that I was to read while on my way to Alaska. My apologies to anyone who doesn’t know that story, but honestly that is an entire other book. Let’s leave it at 17 year old girl, bad choices, bad boyfriend, (those two always seem to go hand in hand) very loving and protective parents.

The irony of these words had not escaped my current situation, as I sat on the plane definitely feeling more alone than I ever had before. I recalled that at one point in the letter he goes on to say that “you will always be in my heart sweetheart, ” and I feel the burning sensation behind my eyes threatening more tears to fall. The questions still pull at my thoughts and my heart wondering how someone so committed to loving me could have given up without even a goodbye.

As if that didn’t already seem like a flight to China, rather than Texas to New York, we had to make an emergency landing in Philadelphia. The pilot explained there were technical difficulties that needed to be looked at. What he really meant was, the flight attendant had accidentally closed the seat belt to the unoccupied jump seat in the door and it was throwing an error code to the cockpit. I heard them joke about it as I sat on the plane waiting for the next take off. Clearly, this was meant to be one hell of a journey.

Stepping off the plane in Buffalo (because of course everything to Rochester was oversold) I was greeted by my Aunt Becky and her partner Joan. They embraced me instantly and I could feel Aunt Becky’s chest heaving under her sobs. I must admit I felt like an asshole because I was the only one who wasn’t crying. In fact, since the night my mother broke the news to me I had a warm tear trickle here and there, but the uncontrollable sobs had since ceased. I survived solely on the adrenaline within my body and the intense time lapse of thoughts and memories that flowed through my mind.

I must admit, there are some missing portions of these days, to which I have had to turn to my loved ones to help fill in the gaps. As we continue, you will see how much really happened, and how each of us only knew a minuscule part. As the dramatic plot unfolded, the scenes that we each played in became more fluent and started to piece together the real story; the one I am going to tell you now.

It wasn’t until the following morning that I was actually able to hear my mothers words. We sat on the couch together, a gap between us so that I could see her face. I watched her mouth more than anything, I studied how her bottom lip shook as she spoke the words; “he took his own life.”

Confusion engulfed me once again. I knew that what my mother was saying must be true, I had grown up my whole life with her saying she “hated liars.” To this I knew that she wouldn’t lie when she had spent so much energy ingraining its sin to me. But how? My father was a strong man, both mentally and physically. He had taken on a world of shit and never did one worry line form across his face. How could it be that this man I had known for 23 years had weakened to the point of self destruction?

I continued to watch my mothers lips move with her words, and occasionally I would steel a look at her eyes. Not for too long though, because her pain was so evident I thought for sure I would break just from a sheer glance.

The semantics of the incident started to be elaborated on. My father had shot himself in the chest in the detached garage of his home. His then girlfriend, Kim had been the one to call the police. The description my mother had was vague, as she had not collected many of the details. I assume that was okay for the time, because I wasn’t quite ready to explore them myself.

What came to light next was that there was a lot to do to prepare, and I had to get home to New York.

Isn’t it interesting how we “prepare” someone for their own death? We make arrangements and decisions for someone who will not be around to see them. The irony is that I wasn’t prepared for my fathers death; but I had to prepare him.

I spent the rest of that day speaking with the lovely people from different airline companies. It was January 4th, and they would not extend an bereavement flight to me due to the fact that it was still “holiday season.” I reminded myself to call later and apologize for not being able to make my fathers suicide more convenient.

A few hours and a few hundred dollars later, and I was on my way to New York; alone.

• 

I believe the emotions that followed those words are one some of the most difficult to describe. Many people would describe such as shock, or an out of body experience. I didn’t really feel that those descriptions do justice to my state of mind at that moment.

The best description I can provide is that is as if I took an obscene amount of amphetamines and my mind was playing a movie of my life in fast forward beginning with the very first memory I had. I thought about everything in that moment, things that made no connection to anything that was currently happening in the present moment. I thought about the dog I had as a child, the last time I was grounded as a teenager, eating a breakfast sandwich in my dad’s work truck. I remember wondering if I had put the laundry in the dryer and if I had put the garbage cans out (as if was garbage day). The mind is an elaborate and confusing part of a human being, but it surely does it’s best to protect the heart. 

Tears did not come at one as one would expect, even as my mother went through the details. She explained to me that he had taken his own life and that I needed to call the police in NY to get the rest of the details. It is in this moment I remember reaching for the phone and wondering how in the world do you call the police in a different state? I couldn’t very well dial 911. A warm hand took the phone and dialed for me, no doubt my mothers. I never turned to look at her but I could feel the love in her touch.

Before long, I was speaking with a Rochester City Police Officer who had apparently responded to the call at my father’s home. I had a less than pleasant conversation with the man who had clearly gone cold to all emotions from his time spent in homicide; or in my case suicide.  His confirmation of the events was quick and cold and the conversation was terminated within minutes.

I set the phone down and realized for the first time that I had a shaky hand.

I spent the rest of the night making calls to family, alerting them of the situation. I sounded like a recording, void of all emotion as I called aunts, uncles, my grandmother, friends, each conversation as bland as the last. In the back of my mind I kept thinking about my ten year old little sister, had anyone told her?

     I finished the necessary phone calls and returned to the living room to be with my family. It was looking into their swollen red -rimmed eyes that I finally grasped the sense of awareness. The tears flowed freely from my eyes, as unstoppable as the pain I was experiencing. I cried until I choked and eventually until I vomited. I spent the remainder of the night in the bathroom, unable to stop the effects.

I wouldn’t have considered my home state of New York as the “North Country,” until I moved to Texas. It is here that I realized how much Texas really is it’s own country. It has been interesting being a girl from the north country in these southern waters. 

It should go without saying, (but let’s be honest, nothing does these days) that I wouldn’t have traded my NY upbringing for anything. I have my faults of course, but I don’t think I could have survived the rest of what you will read without being a little rough around the edges and developing a tough skin (probably from those blistery winter days). 

I was raised by my mother and my father, but divorce was a part of my life very early on and my upbringing was done separately. I must take this moment to pay homage to my parents in that even divorced, they could come together instantly when anything had to do with me. This included, but was not limited to family functions, life milestones and severe punishment. You know how children of divorced families can feel powerful that their punishment in one home would not carry over to the next? Not here. Not in my home. My parental units were a united front. I love them for that. 

Love was abundant, knowledge was power, and honesty was paramount; as a girl from the north country.