Why me? I wonder, as I gaze deep into the silent waves that were still a bit fuzzy from the morning dew. Next to me, my dad casts his line. The minnow, speared with the end of the hook, flies into the crisp air. It splashes and disappears into the lake.

            It has been three years since my parents divorced. Many things have happened since then. I have a little sister named Brianna now, who just entered the task of toiling with the terrible twos. I live with her, my mom and my step-dad. I didn't like my step-dad much. Sometimes I questioned whether or not he began the conflict, but I found out that wasn't true.

As my eyes come back to my dad, sitting on the edge of his fold-up chair and taking a swig of his Pepsi, I ask myself, why did my parents have to get divorced? What did I do wrong?

He sets his soda down and turns to me.

            "What… what did you just say?"

            "Amber, your father is an alcoholic."

            I stared blankly at my mother. I couldn't begin to comprehend what she had just said. Inside, my stomach cringed. How could that be? When they were married, I never saw dad drinking alcohol. What proof did she have of him being an alcoholic? How could she accuse my dad of such a thing?

            "Are you listening to me?"

            "What?"

            My mom's eyes lit up with aggravation. "What I'm saying now may affect you someday, and you need to come to the realization that your father is not the person you think he is."

            "How would you know?" I asked, taking a daring step forward. "You were married to him for fifteen years, but during the eight or nine years I spent with him, I never once saw him drink! Not once!"

            "Once you're an alcoholic, you're always an alcoholic."

            My mind simply wouldn't take that as an answer. I knew who my father was. He was a caring, dedicated father, whom I could talk about anything with. He was honest and worked hard at his job.

            But the damage had been done. Her words had already affected me. In one bold notion, my mind concluded that the realization wasn't my father as an alcoholic, but my mom as an antagonist.

            "And does that make you the better parent? Are you saying that since my dad is an 'alcoholic,' you are the one I should love more?"

             Tears welled up in my eyes. I batted my eyes with the back of my hand, but when my clear gaze returned to my mother, her expression made the world blurry all over again…

            His fishing pole twitches gently, and my dad promptly disconnects the gaze. With a quick flex of his wrist, he pops the line.

"I think I got one!"

He reels in a tiny perch, and I yip with excitement as it squirms and flops on the dock. He unhooks the fish and presents it to me. Since I am a twelve year-old tomboy, short hair and all, I trace a long line down its colorful side. I look up to dad and he smiles. He then lowers the fish to the water and it flutters back into Eagle Lake.

"He was a cute one, wasn't he?" he asks, as he jumps back into his chair.

I nod and reply, "Of course. You caught it!"

            Dad chuckles to himself and casts again. I sneak a few glances over to him with my peripheral vision.

He couldn't be. He just couldn't be an alcoholic. My feelings quarrel inside my mind. I dispute with myself. Who is right? My mom or my dad?

My dad never drinks in front of me. Never.

I opened the door to the room. She sat in her plushy black chair with her hands folded in her lap, like she was waiting for the perfect opportunity to sink her nails into my flesh. I always felt like that when I walked into the counselor's office at school. I was always the victim.

"Have a seat Amber," she instructed.

I cautiously found a chair. I dropped my books on the floor.

"Why did you call me down?" I asked.

"I got a call from your mother today," the counselor said, not moving from her perch. "She said you two had a little spat at home."

"Yeah? So?"

The pause. The oh so infamous counselor's pause. She looked into my eyes, as if she was sizing me up, and replied, "So… she said it was about your father."

I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to talk about this with her.

"Your mother suggested I talk with you about programs dealing with your father's alcoholism."

Rage filled me instantly. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

            "She asked me to help you understand what's going on."

            "Oh, I know what's going on!" I snapped, realization slamming into my head with appalling force. "I know that my dad is not an alcoholic! He's never had a drink of an - "

             "Amber, listen t - "

            "No, you listen to me! It's about time you and my mother see what a great person my dad is!"

            I was on my feet without even knowing it. But I didn't care. I was going to break out of the counselor's office as soon as I could.

            "That's why you can't see it," she said. "You have a preference toward your dad."

            I was speechless. Was a counselor allowed to say that?

            I picked up my books from the floor and I felt her cold eyes on the back of my neck. "Well it was nice talking to you," I exclaimed. "But it's time for me to go."

            And without waiting for her to protest, I bolted out the door.

            "Sweetie, is something bugging you?"

            I jerk up from my downward gaze at the swollen dock. Dad stares at me with his azure eyes I know all too well and I can't help but to confess.

            "Yeah dad, there's something I've been meaning to ask you…"

            He sets his fishing pole in his lap and squeezes it tight between his legs. He touches my shoulder and I relax in his grip. There's no doubt in my mind that an alcoholic certainly wouldn't do this for his daughter.

            "You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?"

            Tears were already coming to my eyes. Of all the hateful things to say about my dad, my mom had to say he was an alcoholic. She wanted to take back everything I had shared with him. The hugs, the kisses good night, the camping trips, hell even the fishing trips! I had to find out the truth.

            "Dad, are you an alcoholic?"

            Pain consumes his eyes. I expected him to laugh like he always did at a crazy conclusion, but he doesn't this time.

            He asks, "Where did you get a crazy idea like that?"

            I look down again at the dock, watching the white foam wash on shore from beneath us. "Mom said you were."

            This is when he laughs, bringing his head back joyously and letting out a deep bellow. I smile inwardly. Maybe this means that he's not.

            He reaches out and grabs my fishing pole. He sets it down gently on the dock and pulls me into a hug. A big hug. It's filled with warmth and devotion.

            "Baby, don't let that get to you. It's not true. I'm not an alcoholic."

            I nod in silent response.

            "I don't care what your mom says about me. It doesn't hurt me."

            I slide further into his arms. Oh how wonderful it was to hear that. He holds onto me tighter. No alcoholic would do this. Alcoholics sell their souls for the bottle, but not my dad.

            It took less than a moment to reassure my doubts.

            "I'm sorry to see that what your mom says hurts you," my dad said, pushing me back to look at me directly. "But as long as we still love each other, then it shouldn't matter what your mom says…"

            As I look back at those words, I wonder what made me decide right then and there. This issue has yet to be resolved, but how did I know he was not an alcoholic? How did I know he didn't cause the divorce?

            Easy. My mom caused it.

            I see now that my mom was infecting all of the good memories involving my dad with lies. Yes, my dad said to me that day, he drank. But my mom did too. He said there was a larger difference between an alcoholic and a social drinker than what meets the eye.

The divorce made me stronger as a person. I'm rebellious and suspicious, and for that I can thank mom. She might be upset with me because I'm my father's daughter, but at least I'm proud to have my last name as Gehrke, because I am my father's daughter.

"Your mom can say whatever she wants about me, just as long as it doesn't change your image of me."