Not a single adult relative asked me how I was dealing with my loss. Other than the occasional aunt who might swipe the bangs out of my face and say, “You poor boy. Be a good son and cut your hair,” not one so much as asked me, “Are you okay?” I never fully forgave them, and have never, ever forgotten the way that one prick of an uncle crossed the line, while I was standing in front of my own father’s grave. Fact is, to this day I have a long fucking memory for people who treat me badly.
