2026-03-04
My Obsessive Father
My name is Gwen Thompson. That night, when I was six, I cowered behind the door, hearing Mom's hoarse plea: "Andrew, please... let me go." Dad did not answer. He only struck a match. The flame instantly consumed her luggage, her photographs, all her desperate hopes of escape—and with them, the last glimmer of light in my childhood. But later, when Mom lay in a pool of blood, the one holding her limp body and weeping was still him. I hate him. Yet, in his bloodshot eyes, I saw a certain pitiful brink of collapse. Does he truly love her, or hate her? How is it love if it's the blade slicing me to pieces, murmuring, "I can't live without...