IT’S MY LIFE
It Wasn’t Easy Being His Daughter
James Owens was a difficult and complicated man
“Daddy! You didn’t!”
While I scolded my father, he laughed like a naughty little boy. He’d just shared with me the latest on the two widows who bring him dinner every Sunday, prepared in the basement kitchen of the church across the street. They were competing for his affection.
One of the ladies began bringing a box of food and blocks of cheese to him every week. That food was given to the church by the city to help feed the needy in the neighborhood. My father was far from needy. But he took it anyway. And that’s when I got after him.
“You tell that woman not to bring any more government-issued food over there,” I said. “That food is not meant for you, and it’s not right for you to accept it.”
“Yes ma’am,” he snickered.
About a month later, he told me that the next time she stepped inside his office with a food box, he told her that his daughter had forbidden him to take it. Now, I don’t know if that was true. But the idea of me forbidding him to do anything was still pretty amusing. We’d come a hell of a long way.
As a kid, my father ruled our home with an iron fist. He was a bully and what he declared was…
