Skip to content

“This is a traditional Texas torture,” I said.

My mother smiled. That was the first warning sign.

My father’s ‘traditional Texas torture’ became a yearly event. And every time, I brought earplugs and a clipboard to track statistical anomalies.

My new room was bigger. South-facing window. Perfect for morning reading light. The closet was organized. The walls were free of my brother’s crude drawings.

The true horror came when my mother suggested I ‘let go’ of some items.

The ball was snapped. Men collided. A sound like thunderous laundry erupted. I covered my ears.

“Father,” I said, sitting down. “I have determined that while the sport itself is a waste of neural resources, your enjoyment of it is… acceptable.”