My+Wicked+Wicked

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This is my father. See? He is young. He looks like Errol Flynn. He is wearing a hat that tips over one eye, a suit that fits him good, and baggy pants. He is also wearing those awful shoes, the two-toned ones my mother hates.

Here is my mother. She is not crying. She cannot look into the lens because the sun is bright. The woman, the one my father knows, is not here. She does not come till later.

My mother will get very mad. Her face will turn red and she will throw one shoe. My father will say nothing. After a while everyone will forget it. Years and years will pass. My mother will stop mentioning it.

This is me she is carrying. I am a baby. She does not know I will turn out bad.