One result of living alone for almost a year. In between writing my own work, I've been reading. My "new" pastime reminds me of my mom, who always had a book in her hands. She doesn't read anymore.
It’s a sad, all too familiar story: harsh, distant, alcoholic father, sensitive, shy daughter always seeking his love and approval. Although there were flashes of kindness, most of my dad’s feelings had been buried long before. Even as...
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