It wasn’t the end of that incident. I didn’t get my homework done, and I was bruised—both of which my social studies teacher noticed. She pulled me aside and I told her what had happened. The teacher got the state involved: a social worker came to the school to investigate, but that wasn’t what I wanted. As difficult as things could be with my parents, I loved them, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else— especially not at a foster home. I lied about the assault to the social worker, clearing my father’s name. Still, our relationship remained distant. He never showed affection, never gave
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