Trading My Heart For His New Princess
Language: en
My father, Gary Miller, had spent the better part of two decades working out-of-state construction jobs, usually in some booming metropolis two states over. I grew up a ward of the state in all but name, raised by our neighbor, Mrs. Helen Davies, seeing him only a few times a year, sometimes not even then. This year, for the first time in memory, he was actually home for the holidays. He stood awkwardly in the living room, clutching a worn manila envelope, which he tentatively pushed toward me. “Honey, you said you missed me on the phone. You asked me to send more pictures of myself. I…