as if in understanding. My parents didn’t like me, growing up, but I always wanted to believe that Papà loved me in his own distant, abnormal way. That maybe he just didn’t know how to express it and didn’t know what to do with people who didn’t serve a direct purpose he could exploit. Mamma destroyed everyone she came into contact with, including him, and I’ve always held on to the shred of hope that Papà and I silently bonded over that. The stolen pats on the shoulder in passing and new leotards every time Mamma had “lost” one made me think he cared more than he could let on. Even if he
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