I was twelve when my real dad was murdered in January of 1992. I was in the seventh grade, on an overnight skiing trip with my school when my mom showed up at the hotel. It was totally random; the ski resort was a few hours away in a different state, and she was not supposed to be chaperoning. When I first saw her there I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it couldn’t be good. She sat me down and told me that my dad had been killed. He was driving home from work, having just cashed his paycheck, and ran over a tack strip on the road. He pulled over to change the tire and someone tried to rob him. My dad put up a fight and they shot him and left him there on the side of the road to bleed out. Six cop cars drove by with him slumped over the steering wheel; the seventh cop stopped, but it was too late. My dad was dead.
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