My Father was a broken man. He came home a hero of a hated war. He was spit on, refused service and beaten for his thanks. His family didn’t believe him, his wife left him. He was a remnant of a human.

Perhaps that is what my mother saw in him. Why she took him into her young arms, full of hope, bright and shining. Those arms, that hope, perhaps peiced him back together. Maybe the kids she gave him helped ease the pain. That is ’till my brother fell sick.

I was there. I saw his face fall, saw the psychosis kick back in, saw my father shatter again. And this time, he shattered beyond repair.