My dad points at the roll of paper towels in my hands and says my name to get my attention—but not my real name. He says my old name. The one I was born with, the one he and my mom gave me. The name itself I don’t mind that much, I guess—but hearing it said out loud, directed at me, always sends a stabbing pain through my chest, this sinking feeling in my gut. I pretend I didn’t hear him, until my dad realizes his mistake. There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds, before he mumbles a quick apology. We never talk about it. How he doesn’t like saying the name Felix out loud. How he’ll always
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