My father shouted: At Least The Army Pays Her Rent

archive?”

My father looked toward me.

I looked at the photographer.

“No.”

The word came out soft, but final.

The photographer retreated immediately.

My father looked wounded.

Good.

Not because I wanted to wound him. Because pain was the first honest thing he had shown all night.

“You don’t want a photo with me?” he asked.

“Not tonight.”

“I’m your father.”

“Yes,continue reading …