in which we continue the narrative:
In a yelling match tonight, my dad called me a coward, and I, proving him right, threw stuff in a bag and left the house. I experienced being homeless and broke for about two hours until the coffee shop closed and I walked back home through the rain for a hug from my mum. I hope my drollness is funny so far.
I inherited many things from my father, including his fierce apologetics1 in favor of a less-than-great family2, but cowardice is not one of these things.
I stood up from the dinner table and told him to remember what he called me, for as long as humanly possible. I will carry it through the rest of my time here, and through new cities and loves. More than anything, I am out to prove him wrong.
Have been saying this to the men in my life lately. All of you are sequels to the true story of my father. I hope I end up with someone who thinks me brave.
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1My therapist, in the first display of strong emotion I've seen in months, "Why are you defending your dad?!"
2My dad's side of the family half-disowned a cousin of mine when he revealed that he had a tattoo. Never mind that it's a small and ugly piece of ink; imagine what they'd do if they discovered mine.