My father didn’t talk to me for three years. Not a sentence. Not a word. Not a syllable. Not a hello, good-bye, how are you? Not an “I love you” for 3 x 365 = 1,095 days. Life is very short, and three years is a huge chunk of time.
My Dad was a flirt, a harmless flirt, but a flirt nevertheless. His flirting got on my mother’s nerves, along with a lot of other things he did or didn’t do, but she knew he was faithful, which he was until the end.
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