My father has arrived for a visit. He isn’t well. He told me about it at dinner. Apparently, it has been several years, but he is just telling me now. Not sure why.
Pulmonary fibrosis. Well, you smoked for years. It happened. He is 76. He told me because I need to be prepared if he dies, because his wife cut me out of the will, and I get nothing when he dies. Such is life. His wife is a fucking cunt, and I hope she gets hit by a bus.
Actually, I don’t. I’ve been waiting for his funeral to tell that bitch off for screaming at my then-13-year-old that she wasn’t hearing impaired. Yes, my child is hearing impaired, and she asked her one year at Christmas, very politely, to speak slower and louder because she was hearing impaired and reads lips. The wife is Puerto Rican, and {Z}’s audiogram is very clear: she can’t hear a rolling R. It’s outside her range. So she can’t understand most native Spanish speakers. They roll their Rs.
The look on my father’s face when I jumped up and went toward them. He wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I calmly explained that {Z} was, in fact, hearing impaired and had been since she was 2, and had been taught to specifically say, “I’m sorry, I am hearing impaired. Please speak slower and louder because I read lips.” It was probably her first complete sentence. It had never been a problem for anyone, and I asked her not to question my child’s disability. Fucking Trump supporters.
I didn’t throw hands.
Tonight, I almost did, though. It’s been a couple of hours, and my jaw has finally unlocked. The only thing preventing me from beating my father to death was focusing on my locked jaw.
We were at dinner, and I was talking to him about legal issues and public record law and other assorted bullshit from my struggle for some bastion of justice regarding the rape.
He said to me, “Well, try not to come off as the vindictive ex-girlfriend. I know you are, but try not to sound that way.”
If my head had started spinning like I was possessed, I wouldn’t have been shocked in that moment. I was that fucking angry.
I’m sorry, have you not noticed the change in your daughter over the last couple of years? Have you not seen what deep despair she has been in? Have you not listened to her when she spoke? Have you even bothered to listen to the sounds on the video she played for you? Have you not seen her fighting with everything she has to just get acknowledgment about what has happened to her?
Have you not seen your child fall?
Vindictive ex-girlfriends don’t keep fighting like this. Rape victims who are fighting to prevent the next woman from ending up in the same place as they did keep fighting.
I sent him the book and asked him to read it over and see if I look like a vindictive ex-girlfriend.
I have to see him tomorrow, and I don’t want to. I am considering just telling him to go the fuck home and get the fuck out of my life, and just putting everything in storage again and living in my car because he is already dead to me.
That is probably not the wisest decision, but it’s the one I should make.
I’m going to spend the night trying to talk myself into not saying anything. Maslow’s hierarchy and whatnot.
But I almost fucking swung on him in the parking lot at Five Guys tonight.
I’m sure as shit not going to bother cleaning for him. Fuck that guy. Fuck him, and I hope he and his fucking cunt of a wife burn the fuck in hell where they belong for just being horrendous fucking human beings.
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