For almost a decade, revealing the story of my dad’s death to others proved to be difficult. In fact, after a number of years, I began calling it the “dad bomb.” I knew that if you stayed in my life long enough that the bomb would have to be dropped––at some point, I had to reveal the truth. It usually came up when asked about my parents. My dad would come into question, and I’d have to tell them. “Well,” I would say reluctantly, knowing where this would lead, “my dad died when I was twenty.” To which they would reply, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Then the look on their face begged the question before it was asked. Some had enough nerve to ask the question right away. Others, however, waited, at times months, to get around to the inevitable question, but I knew it was coming, “So, how did…
