For much of my life I’ve been labeled strange, stand-offish, and even weird, but I never allowed any of those titles to define me nor keep me tied to the role of victim. My late-father understood me and always protected me from my mother’s vindictive, retaliatory actions, but once he closed his eyes it was no holds barred and open season on July.
I have never come to any sound conclusion as to why she despises me so. From what I observed, my father practically worshiped the ground she walked on, and always spoke lovingly about the dime piece he sported around on his arm whenever they painted the town. All of their friends envied what they had found in one another, but little did they know, our family triangle had breaches in it that both of them hide from the roving eye of the public.
About a month after laying…
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