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It all began with a lie.

Quickly told, deftly executed, but a lie nonetheless. Conventional wisdom will tell you that anything based on a foundation of lies will only be destined to failure and ruination. "The centre cannot hold" and all that other literary bollocks. I was never one for conventional wisdom or literary merit, mind. The lie was this:

"I love you, Meg."

Four simple words to make a girl's heart melt. Like putty, I was, in his arms, giving way to tender caresses and whispered platitudes. I should have known better. As my mum had told me, "Men are scum. Men are evil, Megan. Don't trust them. All they want is your sex, nothing else." I always chalked up her attitudes toward the fact that my father was an alcoholic who was known to stick it in anything with a hole in it, and on many occasions did. She'd chatter on about what he was doing wrong, how he was doing it wrong, why he was doing it wrong, and most importantly that he was a "bloody guzzling, soaking sot."

No, I'm not sure exactly what that means either, but whatever it was, my mum was intent on calling it my father. See, my parents were first generation Canadians; both emigrated from various parts of England, half the time in my house I wondered if they were even speaking English.