Women’s House Magazine
October 1972 Issue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To any woman who has ever been told to fit in better, to smile more, to shut up and listen, to make yourself smaller, to follow the status quo, to take your medicine like a man… don’t be afraid to spit it out.
Chapter 1
March 18, 1970
Samantha Stanton’s father often joked about her killing him with kindness, until the fall of 1965, when his death became the punchline. Sam called it murder, her mother called it an accident. Potato, potahto. In the end, it didn’t really matter, did it? He was gone, and that’s all anyone knew for sure.
Except four and a half years later it still mattered to Sam. Her father wasn’t coming back from the grave, not until Jesus came a’callin’, and Sam couldn’t let this bygone be gone. By the arrival of the Disco Era, she decided to pull the trigger on avenging him. Figuratively speaking, that is, because in the spring of 1970 Sam didn’t own a gun, and she couldn’t purchase one even if she wanted. It was one of many things women couldn’t have. But retribution, Sam decided, she would have.
The easy part had been figuring out her father’s killer.
The hard part was figuring out how to get back at him.
Then an idea came to Sam on the tail of her home’s foreclosure notice. It was an idea that would probably get her fired and most certainly get her on someone’s hit list.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Sam’s mother had yelled into the phone receiver when Sam called to tell her the plan.
“If I could prove that the drug industry is corrupt, I could then explain to people why natural remedies are a better alternative.” Sam’s breaths came heavy as she packed her car for the long drive ahead.
“And how do you plan to do this?”
“By educating the biggest consumers in America.”
“Honey,” her mother began with the sharp tone Sam recognized before every lecture, “I know your dad always supported your dreams, but he’s no longer here to protect you. This vendetta will only destroy you.”
Sam closed her blue train case with a click. “At least I won’t go down without a fight.”
The grim reality was that after Sam’s father—the only person who truly understood Sam’s unconventional dreams—passed away, along with him went her ambition. The domino effect of losing her father, and subsequently losing faith in herself, rattled down through the past four years.
But recently she had found her resolve, and a plan formed—pulling her to the only place where Sam’s message could reach America’s biggest consumers, the magazine-reading masses: Ladies Home Journal.
“You really think going back to New York is a good idea?” Sam’s mother lamented.
“Stop worrying so much. Everything will be fine, Mom.”
Thus, her father’s fateful passing led Sam through a series of twists and turns, much like the Pennsylvania turnpike she was now driving along.
