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Most days he would be gone before we woke up and arrive home shortly before dinner.Mom would rush to greet him, tearing off her oven mitts so she could take his briefcase. “Dad’s had a long day and he’s very tired.” If we were too loud or demanding, he’d be quick to let us know. “They know to respect me there.” I’ve read the books he wrote about my early childhood and wondered who this man was that claimed to have held me on his lap.I don’t remember these touching moments, nor do I recall any of the stories about him tossing a football with my brothers in the front yard.That’s why it was strange when he suddenly started paying attention to me.We had the big house in the country, five happy kids, and an American flag flying on the front porch.Mom had graduated with a degree in home economics and thought it was cruel when other families allowed their kids to eat dinner in front of the TV.Mom took me to a doctor and he told me I had migraines.The next year I began to suffer from excruciating stomach pain that left me unable to eat.
First there were blinding headaches so intense I’d be curled up on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet.
This was not the way my father would have written our story.