In 1966, when we got word of my father’s death, it was my brother’s crying that frightened me most. The way he beat at the wall and yelled about the men he would grow up and kill one day. Mama had worried that her death would undo Frank. Maybe she’d remembered his cries from all those years ago, too.
“Men aren’t as emotionally strong as women,” she said. “Besides, you and Linda have your families.”