I woke up early the day after Thanksgiving and immediately reached for my book. Mom made oatmeal for my breakfast, then she started piling boxes of stuff around my bed while I read. She had a newly purchased bedroom set waiting in the garage, and was emptying her room in order to reorganize. She eventually called on me to help drain the waterbed. I pulled the hoses in through the window, then lay on the bed in order to force the water out. I brought my book, so it was an easy chore. My goal for the day was to visit my stepmom, Bridget, and my little brothers. I knew they liked to sleep in very late on weekends and holidays, so it was a surprise when I later found out that they had gotten up at 4:00 AM to go shopping for the entire morning. Either way, I had several excellent hours of reading that morning.

It was nearing noon when the phone rang and Mom handed it to me, whispering "it's your father." He was at work, cooking in a little diner right on the Destin beach. He wanted me to come down and see him, so I said I would take a shower soon and be there for lunch. There were only a few people eating when I arrived. Dad was busy, so I waited at the side door until I caught his attention.

He hasn't changed much in the past four years. With his shaggy hair under an old baseball cap, his untrimmed beard and worn out clothes worn in layers, he looks like a homeless person. His jeans have little holes and the cuffs are frayed over dirty white sneakers that might fall into pieces around his feet at any moment. He's a pitiful sight. I feel guilty for having a father who looks like that. He has a closet full of nice new clothes, gifts from us, but he says his old clothes are more comfortable.

When he sees me, he gives me a big hug, and kisses my cheek, then introduces me to everyone in the restaurant as his first born daughter. He doesn't remember introducing me to them the last three times I saw him. He drinks beer while he cooks, and I can smell it on his breath from a distance. He's in a very friendly mood, happy to see me. I ask for a BLT, then settle at a table with my book while he goes back to work.

Inside, we are all wearing winter clothes, and there is a small heater going in the corner. Through the windows we can see children in bathing suits, playing in the sand and swimming in the Gulf.

I stayed at the diner until it closed at 3:00, thinking he might need a ride home. Turns out he bought a car a while ago, and is driving it despite his lack of a driver's license. He lost it after two DUIs in 1997, and hasn't been able to get it back because he refuses to enter drug and alcohol counseling. He claims he's going to sue the county and get it back.

That whole mess is a result of something I convinced Bridget to do at a time when he was harassing her daily. He was getting way out of control and we were all waiting for something awful to happen to her or her sons. When she left him she moved only a few blocks away, so that the boys wouldn't have to change schools. Dad wasn't working, so he had plenty of time for mischief. While she was working, he constantly broke into her house by a route she could never discover. He would go through her things, stealing mail, leaving threatening notes. Once he took a little ceramic house my brother Matthew had made for her. He mailed it back to her in pieces with a nasty note. Matthew was only 14, but he was ready to go over and fight my father, as if he could beat him into leaving them alone.

Bridget filed for a restraining order, but she made the mistake of telling Dad about it, and he countered by simultaneously filing for a restraining order against her. The judge them denied both. That was when I started researching the Baker Act and some related legal measures we could use. I talked Bridget into going to the county detox center, where she told them about his threatening behavior, showed them the letters he left in her house and on her car, and we detailed his many years of alcoholism. His drinking was the only leverage we had.

Bridget, as his wife, signed an order for Dad to be forcibly put in detox for 72 hours, after which he would have the option of staying in treatment for a month or walking away. But when the police went to take him into custody he had skipped town, running from another warrant as a result of bad checks written all over town. He lived with my sister Alice in Texas for five months, returning after he had paid off the bad checks. The order for detox remains on his record, and the DMV will not return his driver's license until he serves that 72 hours in detox.

Dad refuses to blame me for it, though I have repeatedly told him that it was my idea and that I took Bridget to the county offices and helped her convince the authorities to issue the order. He would rather focus all of his vitriol on Bridget and pretend I am still his loving daughter. I just roll my eyes as he goes on and on about sueing everyone.

Finally, I went to Bridget's house. Cole was playing video games, and Nathan was home as well, on a break between Army Airborne training and further medical courses that start in January. Another one of my brothers has transformed into a man. It's fairly bizarre to see laid back Nathan as a gung-ho soldier. He complains that he will be in training for the better part of a year, and I try to act sympathetic instead of relieved.

Cole escorted me down the block to the home of Bridget's new boyfriend. Steve is a big guy in his early 50's, with a smart sense of humor and a gentle worship of my stepmother. She introduces me to him, his mother, and his two teenage girls, and I try to act extra friendly to overcome the stigma of being my father's daughter.

We all went to dinner together, and had a great time. A lot of laughs. Bridget and Steve's mom both had huge margaritas and by the time our food finally arrived the table was roaring. Steve turns out to be a great guy. The think I like best about him is that he makes Bridget so happy.