My Mom and Dad were both blue collar workers – hard workers. Daddy worked hard to give our family what he thought they needed – a nice home, vacations, all the newest technology, which back then was a microwave, VCR and cordless telephones. We gathered at six each evening for dinner together at the table. He grilled steaks most Saturday evenings on the brick charcoal grill he’d built in the backyard while first Lawrence Welk and then Love Boat played on in the background.
But for much of this seemingly idyllic childhood we lived with an ever-present fear, one that haunted our every moment. We continued on as if all was as it should be, but each of us spoke each word, thought each thought with the image of ‘it’ coming back smothering our certainties.
My brother was almost four years younger than I. When he was seven months old, I was told he had what…
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