My father was screwing his secretary when I pushed his office door open. Wet slaps and grunts filled the room as he drove into her against the desk.My mother had spent three hours over the stove, squinting at a recipe she had memorized years ago. She packed my father's lunch and made me promise to watch him eat, since he was always busy. He had also left his phone at home.I never expected to walk in and find him bent over his desk, his wool slacks bunched around his thighs, buried deep in his secretary.The sight made me want to vomit.This was the man who had promised to be home more that weekend for their thirty-year anniversary dinner.His secretary looked toward the door, eyes widening. She gasped, her face turning a bright, guilty red."Oh, shit, Lisa," she breathed.My father twisted around, flushed and sweating, not even pulling up his pants."Lisa, wait—"I didn’t stay. I ran down the hallway, hit the elevator, and left his shouts behind as the doors closed.I reached my car,
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