Beginnings, by Roy Glassberg

Bitch Bastard, my father would rail at my mother. Why the Bastard, I wondered? And it was explained to me that she didn’t look like either of her two sisters, who looked alike. I believe she came to the U.S. when she was about four, accompanied by her mother and sisters—her father having gone on ahead to establish himself. She complained, My father would never walk with me. Straight back to me, walking ahead with my two sisters but never with me.

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