He was exhausted.
But he never complained.
Even with four jobs, we were still poor.
Our refrigerator was often half empty. Sometimes Dad would tell me he wasn’t hungry so I could have the last portion of food.
My clothes came from thrift stores. My shoes were usually hand-me-downs. At school, I watched other children show off new toys, expensive sneakers, and birthday gifts I could only dream about.
At first, I understood that Dad was doing everything he could.
But as I grew older, understanding slowly turned into resentment.
By the time I became a teenager, that resentment had hardened into anger.
I blamed him for everything.
One night, after seeing another classmate arrive at school in a brand-new car, I finally exploded.
“You’re a loser,” I told him.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, counting the money he’d earned that week.
I kept going.
