Being A Man

I took a moment while out of Dad's view to wince and rub my shoulder. I stuffed the very wrinkled bag in the back of my sock drawer without even looking at it. Peeling off the ripped shirt, I threw it in a corner. I had to bend over some to take a look at my shoulder in my dresser mirror. Touching it gingerly, I knew I was going to be sore for the next few days.

No clean shirts left in my room, which meant nothing to hide the bruise that was working its way across my shoulder. I resented that grip but knew I wouldn't have stayed if it hadn't been there. And I had promised to listen.

I demanded to be treated like a man and got more than I bargained for.

His words about possibly becoming a rapist came back to me. He never said he had, only that the struggle in a crowded city was too much for him, how finding mom had been a godsend.

I didn't want to ask, but at the same time, I was desperate to ask, to be reassured that my dad was who I always thought he was.

It was my turn to try and st