Africa. That's where most of the postcards had come from, including the last one, the previous month. I couldn't quite figure out why my father was even writing my mom, but it seemed like he was angry with her. He never said why, but I asssumed she had done something wrong. I was dying to know, but it would have been useless to ask her. Some uncontrollable urge came over me then, and I wasn't thinking straight. I suddenly felt so mad, at both of them, for tearing our happy family apart. I could have grown up differently with him there for me. I needed to know everything, so I could move on with my life. I booked a trip to Africa that same morning. I must have been crazy.
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