“You don’t love me. You don’t respect me. You don’t—” He’d grabbed my jaws and squeezed so tight that my lips nearly pursed off my face. Out of the corner of my eye, Mom stood at the window with her fingers to her lips, probably silently praying. According to my father, she babied me too much, which caused me to be so scary, as he called it. “I don’t love you? I make sure you have a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. Everywhere you’ve needed me to be, I’ve been there and never missed a goddamn day if I didn’t have a pressing matter out of the city. Any time you’ve needed me, I’ve
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