Peace with my remorseless stepfathers

My mother married five times.

She was terrible at it. She batted .200 on husbands. My father was the only one of the five worth a damn.

Dad was actually her second, so of course I never knew her first. She died not knowing for sure that I knew that. In my adolescence I spent a little time with her third, but mostly I wasn’t around him. He was around when she was living in Florida, which I never did. I knew her fourth and fifth well.

And when I say I knew them well, I mean I knew each of them well enough to talk a hell of a lot of well-informed shit about them.

You know, as I type that, my adrenaline surges a bit, and part of me wants to spill on them. But the point of this post is that my larger self has grown (or at least is growing) past a desire to do so.

People are disappointing.

I hardly regard myself as some untouchable paragon of virtue, but I just can’t believe the way some people conduct themselves as a matter of course. And yet, I’m beginning to internalize the notion that on several levels, that’s none of my business. (Matthew 7:5, anyone?)

It’s hard to walk away from injustice. It’s hard to walk away from the remorseless. However, ironically—maybe almost paradoxically—it’s one of the most powerful things we can do.

Mind, I haven’t felt the click for sure yet. I don’t trust that I’ve relinquished 100% of my cares about these people.

But I’m close enough to make this post.

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