My dad saw me limping down the street with my baby and groceries and asked, “Where’s your car?” When I whispered, “His mom took it… said I’m lucky they let me stay,” Dad didn’t argue. He opened the door and said, “Get in. We’re fixing this tonight

call me lucky to be here. You let her take the car so I couldn’t leave whenever I wanted. And you called it support.”

His mouth opened. No words came out.

Patricia pounced. “If you walk out that door, don’t come back. And don’t expect Derek to chase you. He has responsibilities.”

Dad’s expression changed—something like disgust, something like pity. “Lady,continue reading …