Prodigal Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 3
Marshall Tucker wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt and watched a car pull into his driveway. He didn’t recognize it at first glance—just a black SUV.
In no big hurry to see who it was, and only mildly interested, Marshall walked away from his herb garden and started toward the house—slow and steady. That’s what he was—slow and steady.
That’s what his ex-wife, Shirley, had claimed to admire about him. She came from a broken home, just like he had.
Shirley’s descent into drugs had also been slow and steady. And once the addiction took hold, she never looked back. Marshall, who’d grown up with two alcoholic parents, knew that if Shirley didn’t seek help, his only option would be to walk away. It wasn’t an easy decision. He had loved her. He’d wanted to help her.
But when he came home one day and found his wife being fucked by two men—with traces of cocaine on the coffee table—he knew there was no turning back.
The men looked like the kind of people you didn’t want to mess with.
“I’m calling the police,” Marshall said, from the front door.
Shirley was so high she didn’t even register his presence. She kept bucking into one of the men, the slapping sounds echoing through the room.
Marshall rushed back to his car—he’d parked it a block away—and waited. Ten minutes later, his wife and the two men emerged, carrying two suitcases. They drove off like the devil was chasing them.
When the police arrived, Marshall explained the situation. The officers cleared the house, making sure it was safe for him to return. Shirley had taken everything of value she could find.
Marshall changed the locks and put the house on the market.
He filed for divorce on the grounds of adultery and got a restraining order. Security system tapes showed it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. With no job and no family, Shirley disappeared from his life. One year later, the divorce was granted for abandonment.
Marshall was depressed for months. First his parents, then his wife. Maybe someone had cursed him.
Looking for a fresh start, he moved back to Middletown, to his grandparents’ farm—the only positive role models he’d ever had.
He became a full-time farmer and gave up on his dream of raising a family.
Once settled, he had a long talk with the pastor and started an Al-Anon group at the town church. The group changed his life. Gave it meaning.
“Everything’s growing just fine, so far,” he said, pinching a leaf as he walked down the row of lush green plants. “It was a good year, but farmers never count our crops before harvest. Still—so far, so good.”
Rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans, Marshall stopped in his driveway and watched the pickup crawl to a stop in a cloud of dust. Two women sat inside, with what looked like a little boy in the passenger seat. He figured they were probably lost.
“Can I help you ladies? You missed the detour to Middletown by about three miles. It can be tricky to find,” he called out.
The driver stepped out. She looked to be in her sixties, wore a gray suit, and had her hair scraped into a tight bun. The other woman stayed in the truck with the boy.
“Are you Marshall Tucker, sir?” the woman asked.
“Yeah,” Marshall replied, puzzled. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Megan Crapper, from Social Services.”
Marshall instantly disliked her, though he kept his demeanor polite—friendly, even—until given a reason not to be.
She wrinkled her nose. “You knew a Shirley Collins, didn’t you?”
“What’s it to you whether I knew that woman or not?”
The woman turned and called over her shoulder, “Marian, bring the boy, please!”
The passenger door creaked open, and two small gym shoes hit the dirt. A solemn pair of eyes peeked out from beneath a baseball cap—thin face, watchful expression. The boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. He was holding a stuffed lion. The other woman stood behind him.
“Good morning, I’m Marian Lang,” she said, waving.
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