We ran from you.
I hope you know mom asked us first.
I was relieved, happy even, when I heard the news. You weren't a
Father to me. I doubt I was the son you wanted. We feared you. You broke us. I can count the good memories with you on one hand.
Hell, I wouldn't even be able to fill it.
I remember you took us to six flags. I remember getting sick as soon as we got to the hotel, and I remember you yelling at me on the car ride up for something I didn't do. I don't remember the rides. I don't remember anything else about our only family vacation.
I remember you telling me I couldn't be friends with the neighbor, and I remember your drinking.
One night you thought I was sleeping, and I learned why you wouldn't let me be friends with him. That night I learned what racism was.
I wouldn't leave my room on your days off, and I tried so hard to be good
When you were around. Tried to avoid conflict with you. Tried to avoid you, actually.
But even after living in hell for the first 12 years of my life, I'm not afraid of you anymore, dad. I'm afraid of myself.