“WE DON’T RUN A NURSING HOME,” my father spat, his voice thick with the cheap beer he’d been nursing since noon. He blocked the doorway with his heavy frame, a barrier of flesh and flannel that looked impenetrable. “Go to the VA. We don’t have space for cripples.”
He didn’t know that the roof he was standing under, and the oak floorboards he was standing on, had been paid for by the very legs I lost overseas.
