He dropped the last box onto the dorm room floor, and watched his parents drive away. He’d never belong in just one place, ever again.
He entered the gym in just his vest and pants. The PE teacher called the nursing home. The ex-pupil had forgotten more than just his PE kit.
On his deathbed, a father that had abandoned me asked for stories of my childhood and his grandchildren. In my anger, I told him everything.
She hated the bright colours, the peacock prettiness. As soon as she was old enough she fled her family and went to live with the moths.
In first grade they hated each other; in junior high they said they hated each other. Just before leaving for college they slept together.
“Hi Papa,” she says. “I have your Father’s Day gift.” Sobbing, she spits a wet gob of phlegm against his headstone. “See you next year.”