My real father was a mystery to me growing up. No one wanted to talk about him. If I did ask, Mom would get teary-eyed. Dad once said: “He was a criminal.” Eventually I stopped asking.
We moved around a bit when I was young. For a while we lived in a lonely clifftop house in Wexford while Dad, an award-winning journalist on a career break from the Los Angeles Times, wrote a...
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