WILL B.
I grew up in a house where silence was safer than speaking. My father was a truck driver, gone more often than he was home, either for work or at his girlfriend’s house. You’d think the distance would be better, but it wasn’t in the way a boy needed a father to show me how to become a man. When he returned, the air changed; it was heavy and suffocating as I waited for what would come, what always came at some point, the beatings and the words that cut me deeper than the leather belt, board, or fist. His presence meant tension, anger, and too often, violence. I learned early that home wasn’t a place to grow; it was a place to survive.






