I was most certainly daddy’s little girl growing up. I was basically my father’s shadow. Wherever you saw him, you saw me right there in tow, and sadly I think it contributed to my mother becoming jealous of me.
As a youngster, I can recall being aware that my parents loved each other, although they were never overly affectionate — at least not in front of me. I just remember my mother catering to my father’s every need while my father focused on me and making sure I had the money I needed for my pageants and basketball games, though he never attended one.
My father bought my mother a dozen roses every Saturday morning. If for some reason he was going to be away out of town on a Saturday, he was sure to have flowers delivered. My mother loved this. It brought her so much joy and made her feel special; it was evident in her smile. She would tell me that maybe one day I would find a husband who would buy me Saturday flowers.
Outside of the flowers, I don’t remember any other sweet gestures or displays of gratitude or love from my father to my mother. In fact, my father spent most of his free time on the lake fishing or downstairs in his man cave.
In retrospect, I think it’s safe to say my mother was fairly unhappy overall in their marriage. When I became an adult, she and I had a couple of candid conversations about the fact that she felt unloved and ignored for decades by my father. But I would never have expected to catch her out boo’d up with another man, which is exactly what happened a week ago.
I was out at a hotel bar waiting for my date to arrive. I had just ordered my drink when I happened to look up and see my mother coming from the elevator bank snuggled with a tall, dark, handsome gentleman. She didn’t see me initially, so I had time to really watch their interaction and to observe her flirty and playful body language. When our eyes met, I could tell she had died on the inside. She immediately made her way over to me to explain.
She eventually admitted that she had been unfaithful and that it had to do in large part with her feeling neglected by my father for years. But she swore that it was an isolated incident and that it would never happen again. She begged me not to tell my father, and to give her the opportunity to talk to him about what she had done.
Should I trust that my mother is going to disclose her indiscretion, or should I tell my father myself?
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