(The following includes content that some may find offensive or disturbing).
There is such chaos in the rigidity,
Predictable unpredictability.
Meanness. Aggression. Always coiled in the corner.
The strong foundation for the crumbly walls of care and concern. Ready to spring, should I breach the edge of his narrow track.
I do it anyway. I question, assert, change, follow my own path.
Yes, I knew he tried to control us with his money.
But I believed he would, in the end, rise above, see a broader truth, step out of his constriction.
Be a Dad.
He didn't. He carried out the ever-implicit threat and disinherited me from an amount that would have made a difference. Yes, it was blood money — but still, partial payment for the harm he caused.
I feel nauseous. Was it a game? Did I lose?
You left no explanation, no note, you pathetic fucking coward.
My siblings don't know why, I don't know why.
Yet really, we all know why: the crowning achievement of the wretched work of alcoholism.
The basest of base character: punish others for your own sins.
Barbara B