Whenever she lights up, she’s taken back to that day.
It started out innocent enough. She was a little girl giggling in dad’s arms at the playground.
But amid playing pretend, tugging at the corner of his eye was a memory of mom and her final exit. The wounds were still raw, his heart still broken. The fun times, like his mood, flipped.
Ever since then, the loving feeling of being enveloped in dad’s arms vanished. That was the day she learned parents were not perfect.
Like the smell of tobacco, the memory clings. Just when you think you’ve washed it all off, you catch a whiff of it.