Rather than being a force of stability, the times my own father did show up served only to temporarily disrupt the pleasant routines my mother and I had established. He arrived unannounced at our back door one day when I was 8, and I thought he was an escaped convict who?d come to bludgeon us to death. I?d screamed, and my mom came running, pausing for a moment to laugh, ?No, honey, that?s just your dad.? My father came to see us several times over the course of my growing up. I remember these visits as short and uncomfortable. (His large beard embarrassed me to no end.)
Source: http://feeds.slate.com/click.phdo?i=d13eddc3a928fc4e0b3f52b9cd0efc34
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