My father could have changed the world. Instead, he changed mine

All my fleeting memories of my father from the acreage are of his anger, or of me in his shadow. In one strong memory, my sisters and I were in the back seat of the car, my mom was in the front, and my dad was in the driver’s seat. We were in some kind of work yard. This was years before my dad started selling drugs, or rather, this was one of the stints when he had a trades job. Our dog, Buddy, had just died after getting hit by a car in front of our property. My mother broke the news to my father, and I watched a flood of sadness wash over his eyes, but only for a second, until he covered it with anger.