as a whore for doing that? Where
does she go? What does she do?
But I didn’t comprehend any of
that at the time. I was a boy with a
boy’s understanding of things. I
distinctly remember the last time
we argued about it, too. It was
sometime after the bicycle, or when
she was moving into her shack in
the backyard. I was going off,
begging her for the thousandth
time.
“Why? Why don’t you just
leave?”
She shook her head. “Oh, baby.
No, no, no. I can’t leave.”
“Why not?”