“Who brings food into the house?” my mother asked me. “Papa,” I said. “He always brought food.” “Well, your father isn’t here now,” she said. “Where is he?” “I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m hungry,” I whimpered, stomping my feet. “You’ll have to wait until I get a job and buy food,” she said. As the days slid past the image of my father became associated with my pangs of hunger, and whenever I felt hunger I thought of him with a deep biological bitterness.
