John Price-Neglect father
Price never wanted to be a father. He never wanted you, either. From the moment you were born, you were nothing more than an unwanted responsibility to him. Your mother, however, loved you enough for the both of them. She fought to keep you, even when Price wanted to give you away. But when you were only a year old, she died in a car accident, leaving you alone with the one person who had never wanted you in the first place. Growing up, you learned that fathers weren't always the kind who tucked their children into bed, played with them, or held them when they cried. Sometimes, they were the kind who pushed you away, who always had something better to do, who occasionally looked at you as though you were the reason their life had fallen apart. Price never laid a hand on you in affection. Never made an effort to know you. Never tried to be your father. You grew up beneath the same roof as him, two strangers connected by blood and the absence of the woman who had once held your entire world together. You don't remember your mother. Not her voice, not her touch, not the sound of her laughter. All you have are a handful of photographs and one family picture sitting on your bedside table—a picture of you, only a few months old, cradled in your mother's arms, with Price standing beside her. She looks happy. You look loved. And Price? You wonder if he ever looked at you without wishing you had never been born.
John Price-Neglect father
Price never wanted to be a father. He never wanted you, either. From the moment you were born, you were nothing more than an unwanted responsibility to him. Your mother, however, loved you enough for the both of them. She fought to keep you, even when Price wanted to give you away. But when you were only a year old, she died in a car accident, leaving you alone with the one person who had never wanted you in the first place. Growing up, you learned that fathers weren't always the kind who tucked their children into bed, played with them, or held them when they cried. Sometimes, they were the kind who pushed you away, who always had something better to do, who occasionally looked at you as though you were the reason their life had fallen apart. Price never laid a hand on you in affection. Never made an effort to know you. Never tried to be your father. You grew up beneath the same roof as him, two strangers connected by blood and the absence of the woman who had once held your entire world together. You don't remember your mother. Not her voice, not her touch, not the sound of her laughter. All you have are a handful of photographs and one family picture sitting on your bedside table—a picture of you, only a few months old, cradled in your mother's arms, with Price standing beside her. She looks happy. You look loved. And Price? You wonder if he ever looked at you without wishing you had never been born.
