17 January 2016
My father died when I was only twelve years old. He had been ill for quite some time with cancer and I remember taking care of him each day when I got home from school. I was all he had during that time as my mother worked nights in the hospital and my brother was always at the pub. When people asked me about him I would always tell the story of how he sat us down one day and told us about the argument he got into with a German man he encountered one day whilst walking along the canal bank. The argument ended with my father killing the man and dumping the body in the canal. My father took pride in telling the story because the money that the dead man had on him financed our new life in England. My mother hated ...read more
