Dad didn’t know how to live in a world where she didn’t.
At first it was beer. Then whiskey. Then payday loans. Then card games in the back room of Duffy’s Tavern with men who had dead eyes and good boots. We sold my mother’s sewing machine, then her wedding ring, then the truck, then the lawn mower, then my future one little piece at a time.
By the time I graduated high school, there was nothing left in the trailer that hadn’t already been pawned, borrowed against, or threatened.
I should’ve seen it coming.
The landlord, Mr. Crenshaw, knocked on the door at six-thirty the next morning while I was still sitting at the table with my jacket on.
Continue on the next page:
