for justprompts
Sometimes Kate wonders when exactly she stopped minding telling the lies.
She grew up thinking her dad was a man named Sam Austen. He was -- is -- a good guy. Really good: noble, honest, hard-working, dedicated, sweet. You couldn't ask for a better guy for a father. All she wanted to ask for was a rekindled romance between him and her mom.
It wasn't ever going to happen. Her mom, Diane, had this thing for a guy named Wayne for as long as she can remember, and eventually they got married.
He was disgusting. He made Kate hate living at home. Moving in with Sam would've been great, but he was kept busy with his active military service and her mom was never willing to let her go. As she grew up, she settled for visiting him as often as she could.
She loved those visits. He was her father. He loved her and taught her things and took her camping with him. They'd hunt in the woods -- just about his favorite pastime -- or go to the beach or have picnics in parks. He listened to her. He told her stories. He'd buy her things. He was proud of her.
He never once leered at her. He never once came home drunk and violent, stumbling over his own feet and reeking of cheap beer.
He never grabbed her wrist and eyed her up and down.
He never would've raised a hand to Diane. Not once.
Wayne was a different story, and Diane loved him more than he deserved: she'd cover for him, she'd lie about the sprained wrists she'd end up with, she'd make excuses for the bruises that kept blossoming on her face and arms.
She'd lie to anyone about it; she'd lie like Kate couldn't hear it happening at home.
And still Diane loved Wayne. She'd kiss him, make him dinner, insist he'd never intentionally hurt her, put her hand in his, share her bed with him.
Kate hated it. She hated him. She moved out as soon as she could.
She was twenty-three when she decided to make Sam a scrapbook for his birthday. He always liked taking pictures of special occasions and places they went together. Best way to keep good memories intact, he told her once, and she knew he'd appreciate it.
She called his CO and asked for some pictures of him in uniform. A bunch of the photographs sent to her had place names and dates on the back, and that's how she discovered Sam was on duty in Korea up until four months before she was born.
He was in Korea when she was conceived.
She knew who her father really was then, and she knew Sam knew. Did Wayne? Did he know when he looked at her like that? When he grabbed her and tugged her close enough to be overwhelmed by the booze and cigarette smoke on his breath?
That night she cried until she couldn't anymore.
She's never hated anyone else in her whole life as much as she hated Wayne, and she felt ruined. Poisoned. Like there was no way she could ever really be good because he's an undeniable part of her, something tainted, something bad that would forever overshadow anything good in her life. She took matters into her own hands: no more of Wayne hurting his wife, no more harassing his daughter. She made sure he'd never touch Diane again, made sure -- with the help of an insurance policy she took out -- that her mom would be taken care of.
And then Diane gave her up. (Your mama gave you up, Kate.) Diane chose the memory of him over her. (What did you do, Katherine?) She did it first that very night, then she did it again when Kate went back to Iowa to see her, telling her you can't help who you love, Katherine, and for good or bad, I loved him and that she'd let the cops know if she ever tried to see her again.
She gave Kate up a third time in the hospital. Sick with cancer, her eyes dark-circled and puffy, her limbs weak and her voice a ghost of what it used to be, Diane hardly even looked like herself. But Kate had to see her.
She had to. There was no such thing as going without seeing her mother again; nothing mattered but the fact that her mom was dying -- dying -- and she needed to say I love you. She needed to say I'm sorry.
None of it made a difference. Diane called for help, voice rasping, and cops came running.
That's three times Diane chose her abuser over her daughter, three betrayals, and Kate's finally taken the hint. She can't ever forgive her mother for it.
When Kate was growing up, Diane used to remind her how much she loved her.
Sometimes she thinks when it comes to lying she learned from the best.
She grew up thinking her dad was a man named Sam Austen. He was -- is -- a good guy. Really good: noble, honest, hard-working, dedicated, sweet. You couldn't ask for a better guy for a father. All she wanted to ask for was a rekindled romance between him and her mom.
It wasn't ever going to happen. Her mom, Diane, had this thing for a guy named Wayne for as long as she can remember, and eventually they got married.
He was disgusting. He made Kate hate living at home. Moving in with Sam would've been great, but he was kept busy with his active military service and her mom was never willing to let her go. As she grew up, she settled for visiting him as often as she could.
She loved those visits. He was her father. He loved her and taught her things and took her camping with him. They'd hunt in the woods -- just about his favorite pastime -- or go to the beach or have picnics in parks. He listened to her. He told her stories. He'd buy her things. He was proud of her.
He never once leered at her. He never once came home drunk and violent, stumbling over his own feet and reeking of cheap beer.
He never grabbed her wrist and eyed her up and down.
He never would've raised a hand to Diane. Not once.
Wayne was a different story, and Diane loved him more than he deserved: she'd cover for him, she'd lie about the sprained wrists she'd end up with, she'd make excuses for the bruises that kept blossoming on her face and arms.
She'd lie to anyone about it; she'd lie like Kate couldn't hear it happening at home.
And still Diane loved Wayne. She'd kiss him, make him dinner, insist he'd never intentionally hurt her, put her hand in his, share her bed with him.
Kate hated it. She hated him. She moved out as soon as she could.
She was twenty-three when she decided to make Sam a scrapbook for his birthday. He always liked taking pictures of special occasions and places they went together. Best way to keep good memories intact, he told her once, and she knew he'd appreciate it.
She called his CO and asked for some pictures of him in uniform. A bunch of the photographs sent to her had place names and dates on the back, and that's how she discovered Sam was on duty in Korea up until four months before she was born.
He was in Korea when she was conceived.
She knew who her father really was then, and she knew Sam knew. Did Wayne? Did he know when he looked at her like that? When he grabbed her and tugged her close enough to be overwhelmed by the booze and cigarette smoke on his breath?
That night she cried until she couldn't anymore.
She's never hated anyone else in her whole life as much as she hated Wayne, and she felt ruined. Poisoned. Like there was no way she could ever really be good because he's an undeniable part of her, something tainted, something bad that would forever overshadow anything good in her life. She took matters into her own hands: no more of Wayne hurting his wife, no more harassing his daughter. She made sure he'd never touch Diane again, made sure -- with the help of an insurance policy she took out -- that her mom would be taken care of.
And then Diane gave her up. (Your mama gave you up, Kate.) Diane chose the memory of him over her. (What did you do, Katherine?) She did it first that very night, then she did it again when Kate went back to Iowa to see her, telling her you can't help who you love, Katherine, and for good or bad, I loved him and that she'd let the cops know if she ever tried to see her again.
She gave Kate up a third time in the hospital. Sick with cancer, her eyes dark-circled and puffy, her limbs weak and her voice a ghost of what it used to be, Diane hardly even looked like herself. But Kate had to see her.
She had to. There was no such thing as going without seeing her mother again; nothing mattered but the fact that her mom was dying -- dying -- and she needed to say I love you. She needed to say I'm sorry.
None of it made a difference. Diane called for help, voice rasping, and cops came running.
That's three times Diane chose her abuser over her daughter, three betrayals, and Kate's finally taken the hint. She can't ever forgive her mother for it.
When Kate was growing up, Diane used to remind her how much she loved her.
Sometimes she thinks when it comes to lying she learned from the best.