Maggie Meyers

But the problem was, ignoring the problem didn’t make it go away like other problems might.

One Saturday morning only a month after the break-up, my routine was cracked wide open when a police officer knocked at my door.

They told me that memories are a good thing, seeing as I just began to lose mine. It’s a mean old trick that age plays on you as it corrupts other parts of your body along the way.

My therapist mentioned to me one day that my memories would start to come back.

“We’ve all been through things,” he replied, never breaking his smile. “And I get that.”

You’ve probably heard the story before: (Cue the reporter voice) Who wants to pick this lovely fresh-out-of-college ex-degenerate who finally got her life together for a real world, actual, working job??! Yeah…didn’t think so.

There, as if peeking out of the blackness, were four to five sets of blinking, terrified eyes.

My father was a man of rough edges, not like I remember most of those edges when all I can remember in my child’s mind is being read bedtime stories at night, eating snacks together, and watching the news while…

I remembered my husband’s stern words from the week before: Always let me answer the door. At this time of night, you never know whom it could be, lurking out there.

It was obvious, from the start, that my poetic, writer-of-a-future-wife had placed notes for me.

Things are not always what they seem, and people are not always who they appear to be. The first time I can remember it happening, I was in kindergarten.

She never knew she had a father, and never asked about one.