Is Truth Stranger Than Fiction? You Decide . . .

By JB Miller

In Is Truth Stranger than Fiction . . . You Decide, J.B. Miller takes readers on a captivating journey through the world of storytelling. The three stories in volume one explore the fascinating intersection of fact and fiction.

With her trademark wit, Miller poses thought-provoking questions about the nature of reality, the pow

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Miller
• Release date: Apr 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891218031

Book preview

Dedication

To the mystery of life

CHAPTER

1

Golf Club Revelation

In a quaint town in New Jersey, where traditions and golf clubs are as revered as family heirlooms, our family’s narrative took an unexpected turn.

The Golf Club, with its manicured greens and old-world charm, was more than just a leisure spot; it was the setting where our lives intertwined with secrets and revelations.

My father, a charming man with a penchant for golf and warm laughter, was a well-known figure at the club. He was the kind who could strike a conversation with anyone, his charisma as effortless as his swing on the course.

But beneath this affable exterior lay a web of secrets that would soon unravel our family’s seemingly idyllic life.

It was the summer of ‘75 when whispers began to circulate among club members.

My father, often seen in the company of the club’s elite, had grown particularly close to one family.

They were the epitome of society; their legacy etched into every corner of the town.

The daughter of this family, a woman of elegance and grace, was often seen walking the course with my father, their laughter echoing across the fairways.

As children, we were blissfully unaware of the undercurrents of adult relationships. Our days were spent in innocent play, the complexities of love and betrayal far beyond our comprehension. But that summer, the veil of innocence lifted.

One fateful night, the truth came crashing down like a poorly hit golf ball.

My father, in a moment of unexpected candor, gathered all of us in my parent’s bedroom and confessed to my mother. He was leaving her for another woman.

The room spun as the words sunk in, each syllable a dagger in the heart of our family. It wasn’t just any woman; it was the golf family’s daughter, the same woman he had known since our days in Michigan and Chicago; the woman who visited her parents in our small Jersey town.

The revelation sent shockwaves throughout our household.

My mother, a woman of strength and resilience, crumbled under the weight of betrayal.

With tears that reflected a mixture of anger and heartbreak, she gathered us into our old, yellow wood-paneled station wagon. The car, a symbol of our family’s humble life, contrasted sharply with the opulence of the golf family’s residence where we headed.

Arriving at their doorstep, a mixture of emotions coursed through me. Anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of injustice.

I was only 12, but I had all the nerve of a full-fledged adult as I confronted the woman who had turned our lives upside down.

You’re a horrible person, I blurted out, my voice a mix of rage and sorrow.

She looked at me, her eyes a calm sea, and replied with a dismissive, I don’t really care.

Her words, cold and detached, cut through the warm night air, leaving a chill that lingered long after.

In the wake of confrontation, the world seemed to slow, the sound of our departure from their doorstep echoing hollowly, like the final putt in a lost game.

That night, the reality of our fractured family settled around me like a heavy fog, the familiar shape of a family obscured by sudden change.

Meanwhile, my eldest brother, driven by a sense of familial honor, went to the town train station to confront my father.

But the sight of our father’s eyes, filled with sad resolve, stopped him in his tracks.

There was something in that look that conveyed a deeper, more complex emotion than just guilt or regret. It was as if my father was torn between two worlds, resolute in his decision, yet aware of the deep pain it caused.

In the days that followed, our family oscillated between reconciliation and separation.

My parents would get back together, only to part ways again. It was a dance of love and hurt, a pattern that continued for two years.

My father asked to move back in after that seesaw blur.

I was elated.

My mother was cautious, but she still loved him completely, so she agreed.

He said the affair was over.

Over the next two years our home became a patchwork of strained smiles and silences filled with unasked questions.

It was during this time of quiet tumult that the idea of moving to San Diego first surfaced.

My father spoke of it not with excitement, but a reserved hope, as if the very mention of the city was a delicate spell he was afraid to break.

San Diego was presented to us as a chance for a fresh start, a new chapter waiting to be written far from the rolling fairways that had borne witness to our family’s most tender and painful moments.

The reason for this radical move was shrouded in mystery, the details obscured behind my father’s weary eyes and my mother’s forced optimism.

It was the summer after my sophomore year of high school, and as the day of our departure drew near, the house that had once echoed with laughter now seemed to whisper with the ghosts of what had been.

Packing up our lives, I couldn’t help but feel we were also trying to box up the past, seal it away like old photographs in the attic of our memories.

What lay ahead was uncertain, and as the sun set on the Jersey town that had been our world, its last light held a flicker of something unnamed, a question that hung in the air, unanswered.

Little did I know that years later, a confession from my father would reopen old wounds and reveal a truth that would change everything.

CHAPTER

2

Hidden Motives

The journey to San Diego was more than a physical relocation; it was a voyage into the unknown, a leap into a future clouded by the shadows of our past.

My suspicion that our move may not be for a fresh start, but a pursuit of forbidden love, hung over me like a dark shroud. I only hoped I was wrong, and that life could be patched together again – as a family.

As our station wagon traversed the long, winding roads towards the west coast, I remember looking back at the receding skyline of our old town, wondering if this was just a physical distance or a journey away from the remnants of our shattered past.

The silent understanding between us was palpable — we were all grappling with our own storms of emotions yet bound together by a thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time.

Our new home was a stark contrast to the life we had known.

The San Diego Island town where we settled, with its sprawling beaches and perpetual sunshine, seemed to mock our internal gloom.

The house, though larger and more modern, felt cold and impersonal, lacking the warmth of our previous 3-bedroom, one-bathroom joyful abode, which was saturated with memories — both joyous and painful.

Adjusting to this new life was a challenge.

My mother tried her best to create a sense of normalcy, looking as pretty as possible to keep my father in her arms; her effort to put up a happy front against an unrelenting storm.

She plunged into setting up our home, hoping to make him happy. But the walls echoed with the unsaid — the on again and soon off again presence of my father, whose part, even in its flawed form, had been a cornerstone of our existence.

The truth about my father’s motivations came out soon after we settled. His real reason for the move was a bitter pill to swallow.

We had followed her, the woman from the golf club, the one who had unwittingly become the pivot of our lives.

H was too afraid to tell us, until we were there. At least then he could see us - now and again.

This understanding brought a new wave of resentment.

The man we had looked up to, who had been our hero, was now the source of our deepest pain. His once endearing qualities now seemed like a façade, a mask that had slipped to reveal a stranger.

My siblings and I faced our own battles.

My new school was a daily challenge, not just academically, but socially. The label of being ‘the new kid’ was compounded by my internal struggle.

I was one of the children whose father had left for another woman, a narrative that followed me like a shadow around every hallway and classroom.

I did my best to fit in that junior year. Thank goodness I made the cheerleading squad. That helped cement me into our new community, and even voted me onto Homecoming. I was lucky, I guess. But not so much for the rest of the kids.

My closest older brother in age faced the daunting challenge of integrating during his critical senior year.

He grappled with being the new kid when social circles had long been