An Excerpt.....perhaps

A wet rag is flung across the table and smacks me hard in the face.

I think the saying goes, "there is no use crying over spilt milk," but we are poor and cannot afford to waste milk.

My father's booming voice leaves me trembling with tears and milk from the thrown washcloth used to wipe up my carelessness, streaming down my face. Crying usually enrages him more so I try to stifle my sobs and apologize.

Looking back on moments like these I will recognize the regret that washes over him after incidents like this. I will know my father was well intentioned and just a hurt and angry young man. I will know all of this eventually but in my youth all I knew was the fear.

I moved in with my Dad when I was 5 years old. He was absent for much of those first years, serving in the Air Force and stationed in Florida and England. Rather than relocate, my mother kept the two of us, later joined by my little sister, in Washington State. This left me hardly knowing my Dad when my parents chose to split their duo of daughters during their divorce. Eventually, I would know, even given the dark days of my childhood that I was the lucky one when it came to my lot in life, but that comes later. My sister and I parted ways not knowing we would be denied a typical sibling relationship, rivalry and all.........