The Wounded Woman [antikvár]

PREFACE A Wounded Daughter When I was a little girl I loved my father very much. He was warm and loving and was my favorite playmate. He taught me to play baseball, and he taught me mathematics. When I was seven, every Saturday he took me to the library and charmed the librarian into allowing me to check out fourteen books a week, twice their usual allotment. Because my father hadn't had a chance to finish high school, and because he valued learning so much, he communicated that value to me, and along with my grandmother, he spent hours and hours with me, helping me study and learn and improve my vocabulary, playing quiz games with me, and so on. In winter he took me sledding, and I discovered the magical brilliance of snow in the night and the excitement of the fast ride to the bottom of the hill. He also took me to the horse races where I experienced the thrills of racing and gambling. My father loved animals and so they became my friends too. And when we went on walks together, we always met new people because my father was so friendly and outgoing. I was my father's daughter, and he was so proud of me that I always had a sparkling, glowing smile. My mother was very special to him, too. Every weekend he took us out to dinner at different ethnic restaurants in the city where we lived, and then my father would often take my mother dancing until late in the night. Though we didn't have much money, life seemed to be a great adventure; there were always so many new and interesting things to see and do. But then, somewhere, somehow, all of this started to change. My father began staying out late at night, and when he returned.