My father slammed his fist onto the conference table. “Tell the investigators this was a misunderstanding!” Across from him sat my attorney, three folders of evidence, and the son he had thrown into the rain. “Family forgives,” my mother whispered. I leaned forward. “Family doesn’t require a victim.” Then the conference-room door opened, two investigators stepped inside, and my father finally understood why I had remained silent for three weeks.
My father called me garbage before the coffee had stopped shaking in my hand. Ten minutes later, he threw my suitcase onto the rain-soaked driveway and screamed, “Get out, you useless piece of trash!”
