So, I set the memory aside—like all the photos people my parents’ age have stored in Rubbermaid bins for future scrapbooks. Fact was, I was never alone with Papa again. At least, not for more than a minute or two. One of those times, when I was a year or so older, he said something that I wanted to believe. “I’m sorry about what happened.” “Really?” “It was a mistake,” he said. “An accident. Papa had too much to drink, honey.” I couldn’t fathom how putting his penis in my mouth had been an accident. When it never happened again, I figured that he’d meant it. Even though I didn’t trust him, he
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