“She couldn’t have been that bad–right? You had three, actually four, children with her, if you count the other one. She couldn’t have been that bad?”, my voice giving way slightly as I spoke through the cordless phone handset.

“What? Uhh. Hey, I’m, uh, I’m actually in the middle of something right now. Can we talk about this another time?”, my dad responded hastily.

“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your life”, I responded, not unsnarkily.

Back when we were living in Ohio I had made the mistake of asking Mom about my family history.

The look on her face told me everything I needed to know that my line of questioning was unwelcome.

Her words confirmed it.

“That woman was a slut! How dare you ask about that woman in my home! You ungrateful little bitch! After all I’ve done for you!”

Yeah, that did not go over well.

As I grew older and eventually closer and loyal to Mom I had buried most of my curiosity about the woman who gave birth to me.

When we buried Mom it was like gaining permission to ask questions again.

My gears started turning, I got to thinking and one thing led to another and a few months later I was calling my dad who was living hundreds of miles away from me in West Virginia.

I didn’t think the conversation would go smoothly, but I hadn’t anticipated having the conversation cut before it could be had.

My curiosity died with him a few years after that.