I begged Dad to stop.The more I cried, the more convinced he became that I was pretending, and the harder he swung.Mom and a young Cassandra only stood at a distance, watching.Their faces were so cold that, even as a child, I understood something terrifying.If Dad had beaten me to death right there, some part of them might have thought I deserved it.From then on, any time I made Miles cry, my parents cursed me and beat me for it.Eventually, I stopped fighting him for anything.Attention.Affection.Possessions.Even the right to explain myself.And now, after all those years, they had left me on a cold operating table.When everyone arrived home, Miles dropped onto the couch and announced that he was hungry.Mom hurried into the kitchen, eager to show off a recipe she'd just learned.Cassandra, a woman who barely knew how to boil water at home, sat beside him scrolling through high-protein recovery meals, terrified he might be the least bit uncomfortable.Dad pulle
Read more