I tried deep breathing when I left the Pancake House, sort of driving meditation. I was so sick of family secrets, of high-handed, self-righteous people who justified lying to their children and grandchildren because it was in the children’s best interest. In actuality, it was nothing more than a power trip, a means to control the future by re-writing the past, a way to avoid answering difficult questions about decisions their egos would never admit had been wrong. My deep breathing kept going shallow and quick, so instead I drove too fast and listened to some of Mike’s obnoxious music way too loud. I’m sure that didn’t help in a healthy way, but it did help. In a scratch your poison ivy, pick at your scab, wallow in your resentment sort of way. I’d take it.
I’d calmed down and turned the
