I have to get this off my chest.

If I didn’t, I wouldn’t keep sneaking not-so-subtle jabs at insert name here[1] in my posts. It’s embarrassingly obvious to me now. Even when discussing alcoholism, the focus of my blog, I can’t stay on task. My obsessive need to talk about someone else keeps getting in the way.

Clearly, I am bitter; I am angry; I am resentful.

My heart can’t keep pounding with this poison inside; it’s burning me out. It’s not only infecting my writing but eroding my sense of self. Mary Karr captures the futility of resentment in Lit: “Eventually, I get drunk at her again…I drain the poison that I hope will kill her” (130). That’s exactly what this anger feels like—foolish, pointless, and ultimately, self-destructive.

I need to purge this bitterness before it warps my soul, or worse, sabotages my daddy’s project. But how? Only one way, I think: expose it to the purifying sun, let scrutiny crisp up what’s hateful, then scrape it off, pain and all. I may feel this anger defines me now, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t. (Yes, I’m still convincing myself.) No more half measures, no more tap-dancing around dirty truths to keep things poetic, no more silence just to protect the memoir. If people lose interest because I spill some tea early, they weren’t here for the right reasons anyway.

Maybe if I confront what Bothers me most about Misiree—there’s that pesky pseudonym I hoped to avoid—I can finally let go of this pain. I can stop dragging her into posts where she doesn’t belong and refocus on what matters. My aim has never been to tear her down permanently; it’s to raise awareness about people who exploit vulnerable adults struggling with addiction. But lately, my frustration with this single person has been overshadowing that.

Dad wasn’t always vulnerable—first, he was a “functioning” alcoholic. I want to help others process similar trauma. Since I’m not a therapist, just a 30-something with a journalism degree and a passion for storytelling, this is my way of doing that. But I can’t do it effectively if I keep letting resentment for Misiree derail me.

So, let me say it. Lemme get this off my chest real quick.

This isn’t about listing every awful thing Misiree did or said. That’d take a book (and there is a book). But I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a big part of what pushed me to start this memoir in the first place. She’s straight out of a TV movie, and sometimes I still can’t believe Dad got tangled up with someone like her; he was so normal, and she’s so…not that. Dad wasn’t her first target, and he wasn’t her last, but I’m only going to talk about what happened to my family specifically. The misery she’s inflicted on others—some of which is far worse than anything I could ever tell you—is not mine to reveal.

A caveat: my daddy was not the perfect victim. I mislike that stereotype, but it still needs to be said. While half-listening to Sarah Boone’s trial[3] the other week, I heard the prosecution say, “Jorge Torres was not a perfect victim,” and I cringed. The way they talked about this poor man, who suffocated inside a fricken suitcase, was infuriating. It gave me chills.

That’s exactly what Misiree planned to do to Dad—not the suitcase part, the slandering him in court part. She had the same delusional belief that bringing our probate case before a judge would result in her easy victory because Dad wasn’t a perfect victim. As if! In the cosmic scale of awful things she’s done, her casual threats to drag Dad’s name through the mud was probably the tamest, but O boy, did that get under my skin. My heart broke for Jorge’s family, who had to clear the air about their lost loved one in interviews post-trial. Seeing their pain made me realize just how devastating a trial could’ve been for my family.

We had questions only Misiree could answer, which she kept dodging. The only way we could force her to talk about what happened between her and Dad was in a deposition. We’d been told by past victims[4] that her inability to tell the truth had cost her many a court case, and we had documented several of her lies, so this would’ve been an easy way to catch her. My little sister and I agonized over the choice to settle, but ultimately decided it would be best. We wanted real answers, but she would never give us any. By June 2022, a year after Dad’s death, we were under so much pressure, spending money we didn’t have on multiple lawyers and investigators—long past breaking point. Nobody[5] warns you it costs over $100K if your parent dies without a will, even if he was only married for 14 days to an obvious gold-digger. You’d think the recent widow missing hearings to globetrot would be a clue, but apparently nothing is obvious to the Court—or at least that’s what your lawyer will say. Over and over with their hand out.

a/n: Legally, I can’t discuss much of the probate process, or at least the parts I found most traumatic. One day, I’d like to help people unfamiliar with Probate Court, but I’d like to learn more about Elder Law first. For now, I need time to get over the experience—it only made me more resentful.

Misiree seemed to relish causing us pain, like life was a game to her.

On the day Dad died, she told officers not to call us, claiming she’d handle it after the investigation. (She didn’t.) Apparently, she feared one of his daughters who didn’t like her. Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? She repeatedly called staff at Dad’s condo to ask if his body was gone, relieved once it was, according to a witness. Less than two hours later, she posted about his death on Facebook, tagging his name so all his friends—including his unaware daughters—would see it. Luckily, we were working and missed her post. Dad’s second ex-wife did see it, though. She told Dad’s first ex-wife, our mother, to confirm it, and, unfortunately, it was true. I’m grateful to both women for making sure we found out humanely. Mom rushed into town to tell us herself. I don’t know how I would have coped if I had learned the news from Facebook. Seriously, who does that?

The next morning—24 hours after Dad was found dead—Misiree claimed over text to Libby that “the police said they called y’all.” Then she added, “They actually said y’all were on the way… then y’all never came.” This wasn’t just a mix-up or a misunderstanding—it was part of a pattern of lies that only deepened our grief. She knew that wasn’t true; we hadn’t been told yet, per her request. Misiree had called her mother, who was speeding over in one of Dad’s cars and got pulled over for it, which Misiree also knew. Why she needed to lie about this is beyond me. My mind immediately jumps to sinister conclusions, but Misiree likely just lied because that’s what liars do.

Let me pause for a second.

Me bringing this up might seem petty, but it truly upset me that Misiree kept telling all these weird little lies that made no sense in the midst of our grief. It’s like she didn’t care that we would find out she’d asked officers not to call us. All she wanted in that moment was to save face to Libby, because my little sister had always been careful to keep things civil with her. “I swear on it,” Misiree texted. “I would never have let that happen on purpose.” Liar. In this same text thread, she told my grieving sister we ought to do three urns, adding that Dad wanted to be a tree of life.

That last one is actually true—a shocker. Previously, I had shut down a conversation with Dad when he brought up burial plans. I can’t recall when, but that’s my MO: if a loved one talks about their death, I say it will not happen and forget about it. Now that I’ve lost someone, I’m trying to be more comfortable with the topic, but I’m still not there yet. Regardless, the tree of life idea that Dad discussed with me wouldn’t be possible if he was cremated. I hate that his final wishes weren’t honored, but we just didn’t have the fight in us so soon after his death. (I also wasn’t 100% sure what type of “tree of life” Dad had meant.)

During the death investigation, Misiree also lied to the cops about when and where they got married, claiming it was “30 days ago in Key West.” No, it was 13 days ago at a local park near the courthouse. It was the only day when neither party purchased a sizable amount of alcohol. How miraculous. She must’ve looked up inheritance laws before Dad’s death and thought thirty days sounded better. Her entire statement was peppered with lies—or rather, it was so devoid of truth that I wondered if she even knew who she was talking about. Even though she allegedly gave it under oath, our lawyers believed it wasn’t enough to show her ill intent. Nothing would ever be good enough to satisfy the Court.

Seven days after his death, we finally said goodbye to our daddy at a private viewing.

I was nearly catatonic, hardly getting out of bed, let alone getting shit done. I marvel at Libby’s strength. Just two days after Dad died, Libby stepped into his condo, a place[6] I’d never be able to go again. She did this with her own key, given to her by Dad, with condo security accompanying her. With our mother’s support, she collected a few vital items from among Dad’s many things. She even texted Misiree to let her know what she’d taken: a few personal family photos, artwork we’d made Dad, his computer (hoping to find a digital Will), etc. Nothing of hers. Despite following all these measures, Libby still received threatening texts from Misiree days later, telling her she did “NOT have that right on multiple levels.”

While they were there, Mom took photos of Dad’s unit, fearing a few things would go missing once Misiree moved in permanently. (We weren’t even sure if they had actually gotten married yet or if they were still just engaged.) It ended up being worse than we ever could have imagined. Misiree threw away nearly all Dad’s belongings, claiming they were soiled. How could he have soiled literally everything? We had proof that she was lying with Mom’s photos, but that didn’t matter to the Court.

Misiree kept his expensive TVs and the nicer pieces of furniture, even claiming the TVs were hers when the estate’s curator finally inventoried the unit months later. Anybody who’s lost a loved one knows how important it is to keep something of theirs after they’re gone, and she tore that from us. She could keep his TVs for all we cared; it was the things he wore that still smelled like him—his fuzzy house slippers, for me—that we wanted. Not his material wealth. Misiree didn’t throw out all those priceless things because she was grieving; it was spite.

In the days after Dad’s viewing, Misiree kept up a steady onslaught of texts to my little sister. Libbs mostly kept this from me for a few reasons.

Libby Drew was still playing nice; we were keeping Misiree close for as long as possible. See, Dad had this little black cat named Kitty—they found her around the time their adoption of this little girl fell through. (I’m not convinced it was even a real adoption, but just another one of Misiree’s scams.) Her wanting to adopt a little girl when she didn’t see her own flesh and blood child was…a choice. Anyway, I disliked cats then and didn’t want to take care of Dad’s little gremlin, but I felt obligated because Misiree treated her pets like props for her Instagram. She let them shit and pee all over Dad’s nice new condo and never cleaned up after them, making a 63-year-old who’d just had a stroke do it instead. Libby planned to ask Misiree if we could take the cat, because it killed me to think of an animal my daddy loved being stuck with someone like her. (Libby would, eventually, ask her and be told “NO.” That marked the end of her happy little talks with Misiree.)

Before Libby had the chance to bring up the cat, Misiree said the worst possible thing. First, when discussing the viewing, Misiree made a comment about having security there. We were still in shock, dealing with the death of our father, the person who gave us life, and she’s treating it like some sort of drama-filled game that might get a little rowdy. What did she expect was going to happen? Had she done something deserving of an attack? Neither one of us has ever been arrested or even gotten into a fight, nor would we while standing over our dad’s corpse. Get a grip, Misiree! This. Is. Not. A. Game.

Libby did tell me about that text, knowing it would make me laugh, and we both needed that chuckle more than anything.

Then Misiree texts, “When Kenzie said he couldn’t come To her wedding…. As fierce as a bullet.”

Libby refused to tell me what she had said for months, and rightfully so. A week after Dad’s death, I was not in the right headspace to hear one of my worst fears confirmed.

I never said that to my daddy, whom I loved dearly, nor would I. One reason I’m still not married despite being engaged for years is because Dad died and can’t walk me down the aisle. I promised him it would always be him, nobody else, walking me down that stupid aisle. That was one of his worst fears (insecurities). How dare this ugly woman twist my heartfelt words—some of the last words I ever wrote to him—and make them mean something as ugly as she is? Of all the terrible things this person has done to us, to my dad, this might not seem that bad, comparatively. Let me explain how this utterly destroyed me when I finally found out about it months later.

It’s part of the sociopathic handbook to alienate your target from their loved ones. (I still have plans to write a more detailed post that goes over my dad’s specific case, but for now just know that this is only one step in a multi-step process.) Before Libby finally told me what she had said, I was in a state of limbo, not knowing for sure if Misiree had lied about me to Dad. Did he read my last text to him, or did he think I didn’t love him because I didn’t call? Those first few months after his death, I had the worst nightmares about the phone call I never made; haunting forms skulked about his condo just out of sight, and I was frozen in place on his black leather couch. I watched him shuffle over to his kitchen sink, blood dripping from his long, soft ears, and I did nothing. I was frozen. I couldn’t breathe.

Not knowing what Dad thought about me before he died was torture. Deep down, I had a niggling suspicion—how could I not? Misiree hardly tried to hide her manipulations. And she was so obvious in the way she conducted herself after Dad died. I truly wanted her to have loved my daddy, but I couldn’t find any signs of it. Mere days after his death, Misiree was seen at a local bar by a table of witnesses; she and her date, later identified as her short-lived second boyfriend (she’d been juggling three, including Dad), were allegedly drunk and declined a dinner invite because they wanted to “go home and have sex.” Her first boyfriend, after Dad, became a fixture at “her” condo now that Dad was gone. She told anybody who would listen how rich she now was. She was everywhere, flaunting her offensive happiness in our grief-drawn faces. Yet behind the scenes, she still pretended like she was the perfect doting wife (while attacking her dead husband’s daughter in drunken texts). It was infuriating and nearly drove me to insanity. When I took to social media to vent my frustration and pain, she always had minions who would back her up. It seemed like her evil would have no end.

So, when Libby told me about that text, Misiree finally confirmed all my suspicions about her and my worst fears about my dad’s last months alive. It was true: Misiree had been manipulating Dad all along, whispering in his ear, making him believe nobody but her loved him. In reality, it was the opposite. Having this realization was devastating because it meant Dad died thinking I didn’t love him or want him at my wedding.

I did love him, and I did want him at my wedding. More than anything.

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[1] “Misiree” is [insert name here]; a woman I’ve referred to as the Black Widow, Undesirable #1, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Dad’s ephemeral 3rd wife (a title that lasted less than a fortnight), and sometimes simply as one of Dad’s recurring girlfriends. She’s made enough appearances in past posts to warrant me using her pseudonym; calling her anything other than her real name feels like I’m letting her off the hook, so I’ve avoided it. But I get the confusion that can cause. Case in point: Mom recently told me that someone thought a literal spider killed my dad after reading Keep Your Eyes Peeled for Spiders. Oops!

[3] Shout out to #lawtube, specifically Emily D. Baker, my favorite legal commentator; I’ve been following her since the Depp v. Heard trial. I watched her coverage of the Sarah Boone trial, which made it much easier to understand as a layman with little legal knowledge. I highly recommend her YouTube channel to any fellow crime nerds!

[4] We hired a private investigator who followed a procedure for conducting these interviews, many of which were recorded. This is still considered hearsay, and these aren’t my stories to tell, which is why I’m refraining from including any of those details here. (If you are one of her victims and worry about unwanted exposure, please know I would never do that intentionally! Feel free to reach out if you have any concerns.)

[5] To be fair, our lawyers did warn us it would be costly once or twelve hundred times. We just didn’t listen for a very long time, blinded by the need to seek out justice on behalf of our dad.

[6] Except in my nightmares, or in a specific recurring nightmare.

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