You left my father for another.
You left me, only seven.

Why?

You smoothed my hair and told me it wasn't my fault.
That crying would make my pretty eyes red.

Why?

You were always moving after that.
A few months, long enough to get attached, and gone again.

Why?

You called often, Facebooked me daily.
You sent me postcards from every state that I still keep today.

Why?

You gave me false hope that part of my family might be whole again.
In four years and two affairs you shattered that.

Why?

You chose well, a man who loves me still today.
You gave me someone steady even when you are gone and Dad is bitter.

Why?

You are with an unstable man now, a dangerous man.
The others laugh.
"Your Mama's crazy." They say.
"I know, that's why I worry." I reply.

I worry because you are crazy enough to leave, to cheat, to make dangerous choices.
But you are also crazy enough to dare teach your poor, fragile daughter to ride.
You are crazy enough to debate 16th century patriarchy with an 11-year-old.
You are crazy enough to expect more from the miracle girl.

Why must you do these things?
Why show me kindness, when you will leave again?
Why must you be thousands of wounds ripped open over and over?
Why can't you be an old, simple scar?