Some days the memory of my father's horrible stale cigarette and alcohol breath is enough to make me physically sick. I can remember trying to get away from him, terrified, and plotting to make my escape as soon as he fell asleep. And how my mother sat only feet away, having forced me to take her place. Her head should have been on that pillow! Instead she kept on knitting while her 6-year-old daughter was being damaged beyond any repair. She has never regretted what she has done to me. I wonder if at the moment of his death my father realized what a monster he had been.
Sorry for rambling, having a really difficult day today.