Every time he’d whack me, I’d tighten up my body, scrunch up my face, and hold out a firm palm—with all five fingers spread apart. I took those licks and stood there, rolling my eyes at him with each stroke and wanting to ask, “Are you tired now, ’cause that doesn’t even
hurt.” I’d only thought it; I never said it. I wouldn’t dare back-talk Dad and push his buttons. Plus, I wasn’t that tough as a kid or adolescent. It was rare to
be disciplined by him, anyway. Dad never physically abused any of his kids; Mom was the one he sought. He didn’t show an ounce of kindness when it came to her. Dad had real issues; he was toxic and poisonous. Think about it: What kinda man whips his wife with a belt? Isn’t that a sign of a deeply
The memory gets kind of fuzzy. I don’t recall all the details, just the gist of the story. And this one added another blemish to darken Dad’s character.
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