I lived in a nightmare existence. Whenever I cried or asked about my Mom, my Aunt would yell at me, and tell me I was ‘weak.’ I didn’t want to be considered weak because it was not appealing in our house to cry. If you cried, you were a weak person as far as they were concerned. And in their callous minds I didn’t have reason to cry. At the age of 8, I got the courage to ask about my Dad, as I learned in school about what a Dad was.

“What Dad? We don’t know who your Dad is; he could be anybody. Your Mom had a lot of men, and she never took the time to tell us about any Daddy of yours.” Aunt Rose would say, spitefully.

“You should be glad I took you in, and you didn’t end up in foster care; after all that trouble you and your Grandmother caused for Fiona. How could you cry for a woman you didn’t even know?” Rose would say.