Wind Beneath my wings

A Daughter's Journey Through Betrayal, Loss and Resilience

Every time I hear the first few bars of that song, tears well up in my eyes. It was a song my mother and I shared a deep connection over. Memories rush back—sitting in her '86 red Cavalier at a stoplight in Louisville, Kentucky. It was dark outside, close to dinnertime, and we were on our way to our new apartment. Just the two of us. Both heartbroken after my dad left us for a younger woman after 21 years of marriage. We held each other’s hands tightly, crying uncontrollably, and promised to keep moving forward, much like the final scene of Thelma and Louise.

A few months earlier, my dad had taken on a new job that came with longer and longer hours—sometimes not coming home at all. We had just moved into a new house in a better neighborhood a year before, and I thought we had the perfect family. But one night, I overheard my mom talking to my grandma, sharing her suspicions. She believed something besides work was keeping my dad away. This was before the days of caller ID or star 69. By sheer chance, my mom redialed the last number on our kitchen phone, and in true Southern fashion, that’s when the shit hit the fan.

My mom held the phone, its long cord stretching across the room. It rang, and a young girl picked up on the other end. My mom asked for Terry, my dad. The girl didn’t know who Terry was, so my mom asked to speak to her mother. When the woman got on the phone, my mom asked if she knew my dad. The woman confessed, believing Terry was in the process of getting a divorce. My mom, holding back her shock, simply said in a shaky yet furious voice, "Well, that’s news to me."

I was 14, sitting in my father’s black Chevrolet truck in the driveway of our "perfect" new house. I was sobbing, begging him not to leave, clutching his denim shirt—the uniform of a welder. I’ve tried to erase that moment from my mind, but it lingers. I can’t forget how he talked about the other woman, describing how she made him feel alive and did things my mother never did. He even called her a "tiger in bed." Who says that to their distraught 14-year-old daughter? I have no memory of how I got out of the truck that day. It’s a blur.

My parents weren’t perfect, but I believe they loved each other. Still, an unexpected pregnancy at 18 and the pressure of the times likely made them settle for one another. While I saw glimpses of their happiness in home videos and family pictures, I also witnessed the dysfunction behind closed doors. My mom used to joke that she deserved an Academy Award for how well she played her part in their picture-perfect life.

As I entered my teenage years, my mom began to open up more. She knew how deeply the divorce affected me. While I don’t excuse my dad’s actions, his choices ultimately led to positive changes for my mom.

I was taught not to speak ill of the dead, so when I talk about my late father, it’s not to condemn him, but to heal myself and find forgiveness. My dad had his own demons. His relationship with my brother was strained, a reflection of how his own father had treated him. After the divorce, the woman my dad left my mom for eventually left him too. He became bitter and began to mistreat women, myself included. But that’s a story for another time.

When my dad hit his forties, he seemed to go through a midlife crisis. He became obsessed with his appearance, following some fad oat bran muffin diet—typical of the late '80s. I believe he struggled with his self-worth, never feeling whole because both of his parents had children with other partners. To top it off, the woman he left my mother for was nearly 20 years younger than him.

I remember when he briefly came back, pretending as though nothing had happened. For a moment, I let myself believe it. Maybe he was really coming back. That Saturday morning, I was listening to my new cassette tape of New Kids on the Block in the bathroom, taking a bath. As one song ended, the static on the tape barely faded before I heard a loud noise from the living room. I jumped out of the tub, still soaking wet and naked, and ran to see what was happening.

In the hallway, I saw my mom—usually so calm—holding one of those large 1980s cordless phones, hitting my dad while he sat laughing in his recliner. I yelled for them to stop, confused and terrified. My dad just chuckled. My mom, exhausted and in tears, dropped to her knees.

It was the end. He never truly came back. Only after we were gone did he return. That year, I saw my mom’s resilience like never before. Eventually, she confided in me about more of their marriage, and I began to see my dad’s betrayal in a different light. It gave my mom a sense of freedom. Her days of acting were over.

My dad’s later sadness and decline taught me something invaluable. One choice can alter the course of your life. You can either grow from it or let it consume you.