I stood there as my father threw my clothes, my books, and the last photo of my mother into the fire like my life meant nothing. Then he looked straight at me and said, “This is what happens when you disobey me.” I didn’t say a word. Six years later, I called him and whispered, “Check your mailbox.” Inside was a photo of me standing in front of his house. The house I had just bought. And that was only the beginning.
My father burned everything I owned in the backyard when I was nineteen.
