Another memory with Kathy involves her calling asking if we want to go ice skating. I hadn’t been ice skating since I was four with my mom, and I wanted to go, and this is the shit I don’t understand. He asked me if I wanted to go. I say sure or some shit. He gets mad. Pissy mad. I don’t know why. We go. He sits in thr bleachers, angry. I’m fucking about not knowing how to skate and fall on my butt. This happens multiple times. I cry. Kathy is nice to me. My dad is quietly livid. We go back to her place. We watch Bedazzled. It’s over, Kathy assumes we’re staying the night. Nope. My dad says we’re leaving. He yells at me the whole way home, slamming my head into the window multiple times, particularly hard when we were going over that metal bridge in Radisson. That was the upper middle class neighborhood where Kathy lived, being a rocket scientist, literally, as my dad networked with on a dating site where I feel confident in saying I am certain he used pictures of his Jaguar he bought with my social security money and my mom’s life insurance. Like, I don’t even know. My father never talked to me about this shit. He never talked to me about anything!