Spare the Child

He popped into our lives like a bee sting on the foot while running barefoot in the park: sudden, unexpected, and painful.

His name was Richard, but Mum said to call him “Dad.”

I was only 5 at the time.

My first memories of him consist of me yelling, “You’re not me Dad,” over and over. Maybe this defiance started the beatings; I don’t remember. Continue reading