My father shouted: At Least The Army Pays Her Rent

out of me, wet and painful.

“I did say that.”

“He wanted your father to be proud of you,” she said.

I looked toward the ballroom.

My father stood near the bar, surrounded by no one now. For a man used to orbiting crowds, his isolation looked almost unnatural.

“I wanted that too,” I said.

Mrs. Monroe squeezed my hands. “Wanting it doesn’t make you weak.”

I continue reading …