So every August, she drives to Twinsburg, Ohio, for the annual gathering of twins. But every so often, they don’t-and that difference intrigues her. Most of the time, identical twins have the same taste and food preferences. She and other researchers aim to understand what’s inherited and what’s not in terms of smell, taste, food preferences and obesity. Her personal blog, is where she posts her back-country adventures and photos.Today she is a behavioral geneticist who serves as associate director at Philadelphia’s Monell Chemical Senses Center. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies including Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Forgiveness Fix, BIG, Straightening Her Crown, and Worth More Standing. She has been shortlisted for Vallum Magazine’s Chapbook Prize two consecutive years and is an associate member of the League of Canadian Poets. Sally Quon is a dirt-road diva and teller of tales, living in the Okanagan. My children grew up to be warm, wonderful, kind, and loving human beings, not because of me, but despite me. “Thank you,” she said, “you have no idea the gift you’ve given me.” How she’d hate me! But she deserved the truth, and I told her. After all she had suffered at the hands of her “father,” I was afraid of what she would do if she found out he wasn’t her father at all. She had the only blue eyes in the family. The timing was right-he could be her father, and I’d often thought he was. The truth was I’d had a one-time encounter with someone else. “Are you trying to find out if _ is your real father?” I asked, my heart filling with dread. I heard her quietly ask her brother for a DNA sample. My son and I moved away, while my daughter moved in with friends and finally started to live her own life. I found out later the reason she hadn’t left was because she was afraid to leave me there with him.Īfter all she had suffered, she still thought to protect me, even as I failed to protect her. She stayed until 2018, when after one too many blows, I finally walked out the door. When my daughter turned eighteen, she didn’t leave. They were bound to be broken, and it was my fault. I hate that I let that happen, that their lives were difficult because I was too weak to stop it. Afraid my daughter would grow up thinking it was okay to let someone walk all over her, because she saw the way her father treated me, the way he treated her. ![]() I was afraid, too, my son would grow up thinking it was okay to treat his family that way, the was his father treated us. I was afraid of what was happening to her, and certain the moment she turned eighteen, she would walk out the door and I would never see her again. I will never get over the guilt of letting that happen. ![]() But my daughter worked every day with that man, suffering his anger, ridicule, and criticism. My son worked with me-he remained relatively unscathed. We worked together in a family business, in teams of two. ![]() The physical abuse ceased for a while, but the emotional abuse persisted. I had photos now, of the damage he’d done to my face. Eventually, I got tired of the fight and let him move back in. I realize now they probably only said so because they thought they were supposed to. I’d left their father after they were taken, but he was relentless. It was important to my kids they be able to celebrate Mother’s Day, even if I was cringing inside. But holidays don’t go away just because you want them to. I would have preferred if the day just vanished. It wasn’t until after my children were home that I learned all they had suffered while “in care.” I will never forgive myself for that, either. It was the longest eight months of my life. In 2011, just after my son’s eleventh birthday and just days before Christmas, my children were apprehended by social services and my world fell apart. I didn’t do enough to protect my children, though it broke my heart to see them in pain. He didn’t beat the children the way he beat me, but he hit them often enough to instill fear. We existed in a vacuum, always treading carefully, never sure what might set him off. Our lives were dominated by a man who delighted in making us cry. How can I possibly regret actions that resulted in the birth of another beautiful human being? After all, if I had left that night, my son would never have been born two years later. Ah, but regrets are something I can’t allow myself. I imagine, sometimes, what life would have been like if I had left that night, how different my daughter’s life might have been. I was too proud to admit I’d made a mistake. ![]() But I was young and scared, living in a city where I knew no one. I should have left the night I told him I was pregnant, when he beat me until I thought for sure I would miscarry.
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