When I was twelve, there was a woman who kept coming into my dad’s shop. I understood exactly what she was doing: she was flirting with my dad, trying to get him to stray, or at least to want to stray, as if him wanting her would fill her up in some way. I never understood it then, but shouldn’t I have? All I ever wanted was my mother’s adoration, and is that really so much different? Love is love in all its deadly forms, and we all want it like something primal.
