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April 2, 2007
He was so glad when his mother died. He was sixteen years old, and all he could think of was that he was finally free of her alcoholic rages and their consequences. His brothers were much older than he was, so they were out as much as they could be, and his father worked two jobs, so he was always, always the target of her vodka-fueled anger. He never told anyone how much he suffered at her hands. Looking around at the black-clad mourners, he felt completely alone, the only one not grieving. He could have danced on her grave.