I do not even know his name. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths.
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This video was uploaded to pok-ddal23.live on 07-06-2024 07:38:13
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