Man Up

By Raymond Sloan

I know I was only eight, but I knew as soon as he left that Dad wasn’t coming back. There was this look in his eyes when he went. I didn’t mistake it for regret or remorse or anything like that. No, it was a picture of blind relief.

I glared at my confused mother as she stood in the kitchen holding his twenty-pack, asking me “What’s he gotta get more for?” I shrugged, then put the bin out for the first time and went to my room.

The next morning, I found that Mum had smoked every cigarette.

“I write because I love writing.” – the writer

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