My father and mother were divorced when I was about…seven, maybe? I don’t remember clearly. But I do remember the aching void he left. And my burning jealousy seeing other boys with their fathers: playing with them, disciplining them, BEING THERE for them.

When my mother finally began dating again, I had to have been a real problem for her. I was so damned needy. I remember one gentleman visiting her, and sitting on the couch. There was a love seat behind the couch, and I was curled on it like a little puppy, my heart SCREAMING to him: “please. Look at me. Talk to me. Hug me. Am I so