I starred at the small, red-brown stain on the kitchen wall. My father had told me that he had spilt some Bordeaux on it while carrying a glass to the table but the gash below my mother's eye told a different story. As did the fact that a few days later my mother left. I can even remember watching as her turquoise blue Honda SUV pulled out of the driveway. But that was years ago.
Now my father, clad in swim trunks and a T shirt, sat out by the pool talking to our neighbor Amy Gerstein about property tax. With my chestnut eyes, I peered out at them conversing meaninglessly.
I looked away for a moment as my father glanced through the kitchen window and pretended to become fascinated with yesterday's Wall Street Journal. When I finally looked back up at them I froze with disbelief. Sweeping my thick brown hair out of my eyes I blinked slowly. There she was, Amy Gerstein, over by the pool kissing my father.
