I was sent this article and found it to be interesting. How many children are living this life right now I wonder? Read this for yourself and email me with your comments or ideas you may have.
By the time that I was six, and my brother was five, we were used to waiting—and waiting—for our father to show up. On one particular afternoon, we sat in a pool of sunlight that poured through our living room’s bay windows. In the Noe Valley neighborhood of San Francisco, the fog usually burns off by midday, and we were baking in our little jackets.
Would he be late? Would he come at all? What would he smell like? I’d started sniffing his trademark leather jacket in search of the new scent of cigarettes. I knew that it meant something—maybe that he was different, less safe. My parents had separated a year before, and when my father came to pick us up for occasional visits, his gait was often wobbly and his words slurred. My mother was working at an insurance company, supporting us on her own, and our nanny would be left to handle the mess. Sometimes she wouldn’t let us leave when she saw his condition, once going so far as to physically pull us out of his car. READ MORE