Jessie's Journal (8/14/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

“$300?!?”

That’s what Dad kept yelling the morning of our debarkation.  Hell had broken loose after a porter had slipped sissy’s bar tab under our parents’ cabin door overnight, the service equivalent of ding-dong ditching after leaving behind a flaming sack of poo.

I think Dad would’ve reacted better to the poo.

“$300?!?” he repeated, holding up the lengthy receipt. 

Sissy sat at the edge of her bed, her head hung low.  “I thought it was all-inclusive.”

“Not alcohol!”

Sissy lifted her head.  “You never told me,” she whined.

“I didn’t think I needed to tell my eighteen-year-old daughter!”

Sissy’s head fell again.

Dad paced the floor as he read from the invoice: “Nine Banana Monkeys, six Fudge Mud Pies, four Chocolate Blitzes, two Cherry Zingers…”

It sounded like an alcoholic’s version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.  There was no holiday cheer in Dad’s voice, however.

“Jesus, Michelle,” he sighed after reaching the end.  “No wonder you’re getting so—"

“Walt!”  Mom surged into the discussion.  Up to that point, she’d been content to let Dad rant.  Her quick defense suggested that sissy’s weight had already been a hot topic.

It didn’t take a genius to fill in Dad’s blank, however.   

“Getting so what, Dad?” sissy challenged, defiance in her voice and eyes. 

Whenever sissy was backed into a corner, she frequently went on the attack, twisting mom and dad’s words into a pretzel that distracted from the issue at hand.  If nothing else, it often forced them to parry.  To reset.  To proceed in a calmer, cooler, and more cautious way.  

But on that morning, Dad did something I’d never seen him do before. 

He called her bluff. 

“Fat,” he said straight to her face.  “You’re getting fat.”

“WALT!”

Time seemed to freeze.  Sissy was speechless (two words I never thought I’d use in the same sentence).  She looked like she’d been slapped.  I doubt the hurt on her face would’ve been any more palpable if she had.    

Rather than pressing his advantage, Dad’s eyes softened.  He had wounded his baby girl, which had been his intent, but now he was silent, caught somewhere between a point and an apology.

“We’ll talk more about this when we get home,” Mom said softly as she escorted Dad from the cabin. 

Nobody talked on the way home, however.  Mom was mad at Dad, and Dad was mad at sissy, and sissy was mad at both.  For my part, I came out remarkably unscathed.  I was sure sissy was going to drag me into the fray, accusing me of drinking, too (which I had), but Dad’s “You’re getting fat” bomb had gone off just in time.

Little did I know, the truly heavy artillery was yet to come.

--Jessie