"Life hands you a deck. You don’t get to choose the cards—but how you play them? That’s on you."

🌸 Why I Rarely Write About My Dad

For those of you who’ve been reading my stories from the beginning, you might have noticed I don’t write much about my dad. It’s not that I don’t have stories—I have plenty. But most of them revolve around booze, and since I quit drinking, I’ve tried not to glorify the antics of drunks. Sure, drunk stories can be funny. But for a long time, I made the judgment call to steer clear of them.

🍷 Drunks Are Funny—Until They're Not

Let’s be honest: telling stories about drunks gets laughs. When I was drinking, I loved those stories. They were entertaining, they made people laugh, and honestly, they put me in the spotlight. It was a way of getting back at Dad, a way of holding the mic for once. But here’s the thing—Dad hadn’t changed. I had.

🔄 It Wasn’t Him—It Was My Reaction

When I was three or four years old and my dad was drunk and teasing me, I thought it was hilarious. I’d laugh and laugh. But as I got older, that laughter turned into something else. He still called me his little petunia, but instead of picturing a flower, I started seeing Petunia Pig—Porky Pig’s girlfriend—and that made it feel like an insult. Same actions. Different reactions. It wasn’t him—it was me.

🧠 We Only Know What We Know

Dad did the best he could with the knowledge he had. And I did the best I could with the knowledge I had. I remember telling my boys not to smoke while taking a drag off my cigarette. I told them not to drink because alcoholism ran in the family—while sitting at the table drinking a fifth of gin with Mrs. B. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I was just doing the best I could with what I knew at the time.

🛤️ Everyone Has a Choice

I could sit here and say, "I had a rough life because of my dad." That his alcoholism made me drink, and I passed it on to my kids, who passed it on to theirs. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Yes, Dad drank. But I chose to drink. My dad never held my mouth open and poured booze down my throat. Just like I never did that to my boys. We all made our own choices. We’re all in charge of our own destiny.

🌱 Final Thoughts: A Lesson in Empathy

For a long time, I thought if I could change, anyone could. I believe we all have choices—and we do. But as I’ve gotten older (and maybe just a little wiser), I’ve learned that empathy isn’t about excusing people—it’s about understanding them.

My story isn’t about blaming or shaming. It’s about owning my part and recognizing that everyone’s path looks different. Some of us take the long way around. Some of us trip over the same rock more than once. But we’re all just trying to make sense of the mess and beauty of life the best we can.

I still believe we’re responsible for our choices. But now I try to hold that truth gently—without forgetting that some folks are carrying heavier bags than others.

So if someone you love is struggling, don’t carry their burden, but maybe sit beside them for a while. Sometimes, that’s all empathy really is.

🪑 Pull up a chair. I’ve got a story.

🫖 Wanda-ism:
"We all inherit a kitchen—but it’s our choice what we cook in it."