When my father divorced my mother, it wasn’t entirely a shock. The tension had been simmering for years, but what caught me off guard was who he married next—Marla, the crazy lady from his yoga class.
Marla was… different. She had wild, untamed hair and always seemed like she was in the middle of performing some kind of interpretive dance. One time, she insisted we all sit in a circle to “meditate on the family energy,” as if that would erase years of pain. I tried to be civil, but every conversation with her felt like entering a strange, alternate reality. She spoke about past lives, crystals, and how the color purple connected her to the universe.
My mother, on the other hand, was furious. “Your father has lost his mind,” she said, shaking her head. I couldn’t disagree.
But what was hardest wasn’t Marla’s odd quirks or her bizarre theories. It was watching my father—who used to be grounded, practical—slowly morph into someone I barely recognized. He started talking about astrology, cleansing auras, and even suggested we eat nothing but “sun energy” for a week.
I wanted to hate her, but eventually, I realized something. Marla wasn’t crazy—at least not in the way I thought. She was just different, and maybe that’s what my dad needed after years of his old life. It didn’t make it easier, but it made me see things with a little more clarity.
Still, family dinners would never be the same again.
AI assisted.