Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. .
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