“Once when he was slapping me back and forth, one hand holding my neck, the other whipping across my cheeks, I caught a glimpse of a picture of him on the mantel – ten years old in a Cub Scout uniform. He looked so proud; his grin was so sweet. Freckles, bright eyes, combed hair still wet. Adorable. I wanted to ask him; how did you grow up to be who you are? Who taught you to hit?”