I watched my father throw my clothes, my books, and the last photo of my mother into the fire like my life meant nothing. Then he looked at me and said, “This is what happens when you disobey me.”

being burned away.

“This is what happens when you disobey me,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

The argument had started earlier that day when I told him I was leaving. I had been accepted into a trade program in Columbus. I had a job lined up. A plan. Something that was mine.

But in his mind, I wasn’t a person with a future. I was labor. A pair of hands attached continue reading …