He hated me. I would wear my rainbow shirt to the dinner table and he would sit, working on his sixth beer, staring in judgment as he chewed on some innocent slaughtered animal. I was always too skinny, too weak to be a man.
One night he ran out of beer too early—or a little too late. He left, grabbing his car keys. We heard the tires squeal and then the crash.
“Mom,” I said, “does Dad have life insurance?”
“All we could afford,” she replied, plainly.
I never cried at his funeral. I think he would have liked that.