A good friend came to live with me a few years back. She had to put up with being a semi-permanent guest, sleeping on my futon in the guest room, having almost no say about the arrangement of the house. And yet, I think we had a pretty great time for those months before she found a place of her own.

Now, every time I get mail addressed to her dad, two completely different emotions jostle for prominence. On the one hand, I remember those months fondly. On the other hand, I remember how creeped out she was that her dad was signing himself up for junk mail using my address.

She had a restraining order out against her dad and had tried to keep him from knowing her current address. Somehow he found it, though, and this junk mail with his name on it was his way of saying, “I know where you are.” Later, when she moved again to get married, it took him a couple of months before he mailed her Google Earth satellite images of her house.

She’s since moved yet again, and I’m about to move, too. I imagine this will be the end of my getting social security information in his name.