Scrubbing His Betrayal Bone Deep

Every night after my father cheated, Mom washed his body with steel wool.

She would spray rubbing alcohol onto his raw, bleeding back, her voice a manic, repeating whisper.

"Dirty. You're so dirty, Wesley. So dirty."

Dad’s face would go bone-white from the agonizing sting, but his eyes were always swimming with guilt. He never flinched, never pulled away. Instead, he would look at my wide, bewildered eyes and offer a gentle, quiet comfort.

"Daddy made a mistake, Gemma. Mommy is doing the right thing."

But on my sixth birthday, Dad asked if he could take a shower by himself.