Because his new wife understood just when to cry, my father slapped me. He had no idea that this gesture would make me realize the lengthy string of deceptions and deceit she had carried with her, intent on destroying our family and removing me from her life.
His fingers on my cheek hurt, but it wasn’t a deciding factor. I have endured far worse: frigid military training nights, fear-suppressing survival drills, and deserts where you are largely fighting against yourself. What really devastated me, though, was what I saw in his eyes: a deep, almost practiced disappointment, a wrath that had never been intended for me. His wife, Lila, was close behind him, portraying the ideal victim by clutching to his arm.
That evening, I came to the realization that my father no longer considered me to be his daughter. My name is Aubrey Mercer.
He had allowed himself to be engulfed by quiet loneliness following Mom’s passing. I made an effort to help him when he married Lila. She appeared kind, giving, and almost too polished to be true. Then the fissures emerged: her complaints, her tears, which were always brought on at the perfect time, and her shaking whenever Dad came in.
When I unexpectedly returned home the night of the event, I saw her moving away from me with an accusing hand on her cheek. The smack came shortly after I had mentioned that I had just arrived.
I had the option to turn the page. However, I had learned to spot patterns in the army. And Lila was just a way of walking.
As I dug more, I found a troubled ex-husband, suspicious neighbors, and a lengthy history of emotional and financial abuse.
She wasn’t born to my father.
But he was supposed to be her last.
Only I was prepared to confront the darkness and lay the facts on the table.
I sought safety at a friend’s house close to the base the week after the smack. I made an effort to wear myself out with exercises and runs, but nothing could change the fact that Lila had successfully ensnared my father in her false world.
I required evidence. Actual evidence, not conjecture.
I started by giving her ex-husband, Mark Atwood, a call. I could tell he already understood just by the tone of his voice.
I take it you’re her stepdaughter?
—Indeed. —Then she repeats the action.
It was a small café where we met. Like a well-organized confession, he put a binder full of papers in front of me. He explained the pattern over two cold coffees: seclusion, false charges, and tears that coincided precisely with the appearance of a witness.
He claimed that she rewrites history after wearing you down. All of a sudden, you pose a threat.
He provided me with his proof, which included communications, therapy notes, and empty bank accounts.
—She took everything away from me and fled as a martyr.
I questioned neighbors and old coworkers over the next few days. The tales recurred: meticulously planned lies, strained families, and false charges. I became more aware of the trap she was setting for me as I dug deeper.
I received proof when I received a call from one of Dad’s coworkers: Richard claims that you threatened Lila yesterday.
Not possible. I was training in Atlanta. I also had the evidence.
She was putting together a case against me.
Dad asked me to return two weeks later. He had a cracked voice. He appeared shrunken when I got there. I showed him my travel logs when we sat down.
—I was in Georgia, Dad.
I then gave Mark’s binder to him. His hands shaking, he read each page.
“My God,” he muttered.
That’s when Lila entered. Her mask cracked when she saw the documents.
—She’s controlling you, she yelled.
—No, he answered coolly. She revealed the truth to me.
He started the separation a week later. Lila was gone from his life forever.
Dad said to me that night: — You helped me rediscover who I am.
I felt like his daughter once again at last.
