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Of all the sordid stories that should never be told, I imagine that this would be one of them. The story of a mother—a step-mother, though I should specify that would hardly weigh-in per the eyes of the law—and her son. Not a rosy peach-cheeks type of tale. But a dark, dastardly, seedy type. That’s how this story unfolds. Perhaps one might stow moral judgement and find it possible to forgive the dark sins that I committed while trapped in the madness of a broken heart.It began in 1956. Now, that decade is termed as the ‘Golden Era’. Perhaps that label holds a truth for some. It was an era marked by women of high-status dressing refined and able to support themselves while a whisp of change hung in the air. Oldsmobile, Schlitz, and the RCA Victor—color television for those of you who are far younger than I—were all the passion.I was married then.In my little town of Anaheim, California the summer was well underway with patrons flocking in droves to visit Disney Land, a children’s dreamland that had opened the year before. You know that now but then it was so novel, wildly magical. If you’ve yet to journey the distance West, do so at least once before you die. The petrichor of the Eucalyptus and Redwoods is worth the trip alone.It was a lovely June evening. The heat hadn’t climbed too kaçak iddaa terribly high. Sunset in California is a sight to see, I tell you that much. I enjoyed the night air as I walked down Priscott Street. The summer breeze was warm with just a hint of a chill as the sun began to set, making the neighborhood feel alive, on the cusp of change.Kent, my husband, was to meet me shortly. He was with friends for poker night, a tradition of theirs. He wasn’t a very good poker player, but he enjoyed the game with the men nonetheless.At that time our son was then away at college. Such a diligent boy whom I’m still quite proud of, he attended his summer semester in an effort to push through college in less than four years. He did succeed at that, I’ll have you know, regardless of how much of a dire distraction I was.Even now as I think of it I can feel the beauty of that night wrapped around me like silk, cool and inviting to the touch. If I close my eyes, I can feel the air, smell the citrus from a nearby cluster of orange and lemon trees. I can still hear the dogs barking and the creak of swings, the sound of my heels clicking as I walked. Rat-tat, rat-tat, rat-tat.Perhaps I didn’t fully appreciate our blessed life for what it was. I recall things with far greater fondness now but back then I kaçak bahis believe I took it all for granted. I lived in a fantasy land such as the visitors who had flocked to Disney Land were able to do for a time.And so I ventured up the turtle-like hill atop which our house sat—our happy home. I settled in, my purse on the white shelf capped with gold filigree knobs, my keys on the hook, my heels and pantyhose off—something I only did in the living room when Kent was away—and a cigarette. Oddly, of all the details I can recall the brand my husband smoked is not one.A routine evening, really. I dusted a shelf, straightened a stack of magazines Kent had left skewed about the coffee table, and pulled a record for the player, setting the spindle to that lovely tune I enjoy no longer, A Tree in the Meadow.An hour passed and I hardly noticed, there was always something to be done.Then two.I stitched a needle-work sampling, boasting ornate embroidered lettering around a ring of florals, a craft from my youth I still enjoyed. They made for lovely pillow toppings and gifts at Christmas. But as the time stumbled on I couldn’t occupy myself much longer. Kent should have come home.For a while, I paced before finally calling Luisa who lived next door to the Foxes, the home where Kent had gone for illegal bahis his game that night.But she answered with her voice heavy with sleep.”Oh, Luisa, I didn’t mean to wake you, dear. But I’m worried.”She assured me it was all right.I curled my finger through the spiral phone cord as I paced. “Have you seen Kent? He hasn’t come home.”Luisa laughed it off, commenting that he had one too many beers and perhaps he was sleeping on the Foxes’ couch.But then three hours passed and my efforts to reach the Foxes’ had led only to another sleepy conversation.The truth had already taken hold, crawling up my throat like a grotesque coming through from the other side, bringing with it horrid news.And I wished it weren’t turning into a perverse reality but when there was a knock on the door instead of a key turning in the lock I knew Kent would never step through that door again.The world died around me, shriveling up like an aged rose long past its prime.Though I wish I could tell you more there’s very little I recall of the following months. I do remember the funeral in pieces, and random times after in which the world sort of melted together in a sad twist of dull sounds and drab colors. Of all the places I never imagined to harbor depression, California lost many of its vibrant shades that night.Oh, I managed with things such as keeping house. Empty nothings of a routine I was unwilling to part with. Things stayed in this strange muddle until our son, Calvin, felt it necessary to move back home.