As explained in the previous post, my mother was the pillar of stability in our alcoholic family. She fulfilled Dr. Alice Miller’s definition of “helping witness.” If not for her, our family would have completely collapsed. Although she did not use the word “love,” her acts of service showed it. I saw her literally take food out of her mouth and give it to her hungry teenage son.
We could never count on my father being sober. That was as unpredictable as the box of hand-me-downs the rich girl’s mother in Virginia sent me.
My father also did not say the word “love.” In fact, as I recount on page 53 of my book, I was forty-four years old when I first heard him tell me, “I love you.” Was he too late?
No. I always held an unshakeable conviction he loved me. I cannot explain it. Can you?
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