When Sarah was a little girl, she learned of her father’s infidelity. She didn’t know it had a name as formal as that, though. Infidelity. Such a short word to describe such a complex situation.

To Sarah, infidelity was called “Trixie.” At first she thought it was a funny joke. “Daddy is late coming home because of Trixie,” would say her mother. And her mother would laugh and laugh and laugh. Sarah would set the table for three, as always, and her daddy would come home late and shower and then meet them at the table for dinner just a couple of hours past when he was regularly scheduled, smelling so vibrantly clean. He was his kindest and sweetest and most silly and happy when was late, and so Sarah didn’t mind one bit. “Trixie” was something Sarah looked forward to, but how was she to know? How could six-year-old Sarah know that Trixie was really a woman named Trudy who would later be branded a home-wrecking whore by her mother and a second-wife by her sweet-smelling father?

Oh, life. Such surprises.

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