Memory is a fickle bitch.
Pinning her down on the specifics of an event is tiresome. A giant beach ball or the scent of pancakes in the morning may gently nudge Memory along, but sometimes it takes banging her hardhead against a wall to shake the whole story loose. For me, the early aughts[1] are the head-banging sort, splattering the wall with enough gore to paint Memory a mural so grotesquely grand it might just win an award for “Best Unintentional Tribute to Catastrophic Conclusions Ever.”
On the eighth day of August in the year of our Lord, two thousand, my parents filed for divorce.
Trying to pluck individual moments from the chaos that followed is challenging. Later that same month—the ink barely dry on the divorce papers—Dad bought his lover a mini-schnauzer puppy. I was riding in his car with my little sister, holding that tiny, squirming creature in my hands, and feeling a terror I’d never known before. Every detail is etched into my mind.
My clearest memories are steeped in emotion, and considering my tendency to feel deeply, I have plenty to draw from. But the Beforetimes—the family vacations, movie nights, visits with relatives—have all been swallowed whole by Father Time, leaving only a few idealized home videos in their place.
Even my very First Memory—the one most memoirists cling to as foundational—feels unsteady. The details mostly fit the facts, but something feels off. Unlike other childhood memories, this one makes me hesitate. I should trust it less, but I’ve always felt, deep down, that it marked the birth of my emotional consciousness.
Reading it back (draft eight, version nine), I cringe. It feels melodramatic, almost cliché. I wrote it as my child-self experienced it, yet I can’t help but question: Could I have truly been that perceptive at just six or seven? Am I imposing my present mind onto my past self? And if it’s not true, why does it persist when so many other memories have faded?
I asked Mom about it once, back in middle school. I don’t remember what prompted me, but I remember her response. She said it sounded more like a movie scene than real life, that maybe it didn’t happen exactly as I described. Of course, when I brought that up to her we were smackdab in the middle of Dad’s melodrama. I like to joke that I come from a long line of drama queens, and while Mom has her moments, she’s nothing compared to Dad. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom just told me it was a false memory, hoping that would help me forget it, or hoping I’d let it go more easily that way. But it only made me doubt my perception of reality.
I can’t fault her for it; I refuse to.
Always, always, always, my mother was protecting me and my little sister. Above all else. Why would this be any different? My daddy hung the moon. I was a daddy’s girl, through and through. And somehow, despite everything he’s done to hurt me, I still am. But I wouldn’t be without my mom.
It kills me that he could never grasp that. Everything was always Mom’s fault, or even mine—never his. Growing up, Mom never spoke an ill word against him. Even after his death, she struggled with giving me their email correspondence. She knew how much pain was contained within those messages.
Mom understood what many people don’t: it’s of grave importance that a little girl believes her daddy loves her. Not her father-figure. Not her stepdad[2]. Her actual daddy. Mom did everything to keep mine propped up on the pedestal where I had placed him O, so long ago. Dad was the one who stepped down and walked away, but I never stopped polishing his dais, hoping he might return to claim it.
Now, it sits forlorn in some forgotten corner of my mind, gathering dust.
[1] Apologies for my repeated, back-to-back usage of this phrase. I can be obsessive when I like something; I’ll listen to the same song for months years, and it’s no different with my word choices. The early aughts simply means “the early 2000s.” In this sentence, I’m talking about 2000-2002.
[2] Of course, that doesn’t mean having another father-figure or step-dad is a bad thing. For us, having a step-dad who provided us with love and stability when we desperately needed it was a bonus. Dad just couldn’t bring himself to see it that way.
inspo: memoir musings // the book “Perfect Daughters” by Robert J. Ackerman, Ph.D. // old, confusing feelings resurfacing after reading someone’s post on the subreddit r/AdultChildren // reviewing the Divorce Files[1] one last time (a/n: I write using my own memories—nobody else’s—but having resources like these helps me date[2] specific events.)
[1] I’ve referenced these documents before, just not by that name. (The files include emails too, which I don’t plan on looking at again either.) Check the footnotes and comment section of this post, if you’d like to know more. Mostly, I pulled them out of storage to confirm the memoir’s Order of Events. (Not to be confused with my dad’s Epic Timeline, which focuses more on his life. I’ve also mentioned that timeline a few times; most prominently in this post.)
[2] I can guess why this is so important to me, but regardless of the ‘why’: being truthful or sticking as close to the facts as I can, like providing the actual dates of certain events, comforts me.
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Not all step-parents are good, so it’s worthwhile to be grateful to the ones who are
Another wonderful entry! Such vivid, concise, honest, emotional (in a good way) and beautiful writing – again, about a subject that must be so challenging to share. Your mom has so much integrity – what a remarkable role model. I see her perfectly in your writing. Thank you for sharing your story. Not exaggerating here: I relish every word and detail and wait (impatiently) for your next submission.
Thank you, Ms Darlene. You are a gem! My mom is lucky to call you friend. ❤️