It had always been just the two of us—my dad and me. My mother died the day I was born, so my father, Johnny, had to become everything at once. He packed my lunches before leaving for work, flipped pancakes every Sunday morning without missing a week, and sometime around second grade, he even taught himself how to braid hair by watching YouTube tutorials late at night. He worked as the janitor at the same school I attended. That meant I grew up hearing exactly what people thought about it. “Her dad scrubs our toilets.” “That’s the janitor’s kid.” I...
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