By Kevin Richard White
This is about my dad. He used to have a voice, but now he’s only someone who takes up space in a yellow photograph. He’s the reason I write. There will never be another reason.
I still respect him for telling me flat-out that Mom wasn’t coming back from the hospital. He could have sugarcoated it, but he didn’t. He could have lied and said she’s with God, but he didn’t. I had just turned nine years old—two days after the party, even.
He changed after that. Anyone would, I guess, when something like that happens. But it got nasty. It got spiteful and bitter to take. He spent a lot of time sitting in the dark, ranting about how everyone was out to get him. He didn’t help me with school projects anymore. I began writing in a diary, listing the changes I saw in…
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