My mom Melinda died when I was 8 years old and Marv, my barely-there father, was saddled with a child who he barely knew: me. Marv was essentially MIA before my mom died. He liked cars, boats, and hunting… not kids. So as we stared at each other across the dinner table every night–over a pizza box or mac and cheese usually–we were likely thinking the same thing:
“Who the fuck are you?”
I was a tiny perplexing clone of Marv–tall, skinny, almost black hair, instinctually stubborn–and that may have fascinated him for a moment. But then Marv realized I’d be sneaking out of the house, having periods, and frenching boys at school dances. He wanted no part of it. A month after Melinda died Marv’s serial womanizing ways kicked in, creating an incessant shuffle of women into and out of our lives. Here are my 15 moms that I remember.