He's taking everything back now. He's on his feet, throwing sheets over everything he believed was his. I don't hate him for it, I can't. It's him.

Half-lies, just like Kach, ones you can't call him on because of certain omissions that could mean the truth. Most likely not, but still, no calling him out.

We're so confused. Is he getting a job? Where did the money come from? You can afford to pay $100 for 24 cans of 'special' tuna, now? Really, Dad?

He couldn't dress himself less than a month ago because of the debt we were in. He wouldn't answer the phone because it was just collector after collector. He destroyed his journals because he thought he was going to die.

My mother is pushed to the background again. All those duties I told you about before? He holds them from her just beyond arm's reach now, and always covered in those blankets, those stupid fucking blankets.

In the dark, again.

I'd just like someone to walk and talk with, without feeling stupid or cautious or superior or frustrated or compelled to spout bullshit.

Tonight, my mom came into my room before dinner to tell me this story:

When choosing her security question for her new bank account, one option was "Who is your favorite person?" She thought for a minute, then decided it was me. Out of guilt for how my father might react, she rethought it and chose "What's your favorite book?" instead.