A few days later, an old memory of my dad came to mind. I
asked Howard if he’d come upstairs because I needed to talk about
something important and I needed him to listen.
I started talking and, as I did, real feelings emerged. My voice wavered as I described a painful childhood memory.
Howard immediately began fidgeting with a book, flipping
it nervously open and shut and doodling with his fingers across the
cover. Finally, I stopped in mid-sentence.
“Howard, I feel like you’re not even interested in what I’m saying.” Angry, he turned red and moved to leave the room.
I stood up with tears rolling down my cheeks and said,
“That’s just how it is with men. They really don’t care about women and
children. They can’t give them the time of day.”
The vow I’d made as a child came echoing back to my remembrance, “No man will ever hurt me like Dad hurt Mother.”
