"That's the thing about love; it's always complicated," he says through his lying lips.
He hangs up his coat and sits down at the table. Only minutes from me finding out he's had an affair. Cheating on my mother. My mother who lies upstairs in her bed, dying. Now here he sits, opposite me as I change seats, not wanting to be beside him at the moment. He knows I'm tense - can feel it. Giving me one of those understanding looks. But he doesn't have the right to do that. His rights to patronize me are over.
"I know you're upset, but you don't understand," he attempts to pacify me.
"I understand enough. A girl calls here, wanting you, using words like bitter in my ears."
"There was a time, some years back that I almost made the mistake you assume I have," his eyes shift towards the soup I've had boiling on the stove, "do you mind if I..."
I motion like I don't care. I don't care. Why would I? It's not like we were in the middle of something. He sits back down with brimming bowl and spoon.
"Why should I believe you?" I ask.
"When the hell would I have had time to cheat on your mother? I'm too tired for this. Sort things out and decide for yourself."
He gets up soup in hand and carries it up the stairs. He's taking it to my mom. He feeds her every night. Insists I wait for him to do it. Love or guilt? Every day, off to work, 15 hour shifts to pay for her medicines, doctors, and everything else she needs. At night, taking care of her. Could I be wrong? The girl on the phone, calling him lover, talking of their exploits; or my father taking care of mom?
That's the thing about love; it's always complicated. So is faith. So are the choices we make we make each day. Who or what to believe in. Around me covering walls are the pictures of a happy family. Just months ago, those pictures were alive filling the house with laughter. Decide for yourself. Weight of words upon my shoulders, like a cross to bear. With regards to Pilate, what is truth?