I made her a sandwich, washed an apple, and hoped she’d cope without me. She waved goodbye through a gin-fueled haze as I hopped on the bus.
He got detention for his awful poem. “Larry Lizard spat and swore, snuck up on koala and pooed on his paw.” His mother stifled a giggle.
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.
Pablo lost his only pair of shoes in a fight. His mother would never understand. He limped home, looking for flowers along the way.
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.
“Table for four,” John said brightly. His daughter looked crestfallen. His son just sighed and held up three fingers to the waitress.