One of those strangers was Dorothy’s father, though he didn’t stick around when Greta got pregnant, so Dorothy never knew him. She just knew his type, because that’s who her mother continued to pursue, as though looks, the mere resemblance of someone she’d lost, might be enough of a facsimile to fool herself into happiness, or at least a measure of contentment. Her mother hadn’t been looking for love, she’d been looking for a tourniquet.
