Personal Narrative-I M Not Drinking

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I need sleep,” my dad said, dismissing us when we got back to the house, sitting awkwardly on a sofa which had collapsed beneath his weight. His tracksuit bottoms caught up on his calf exposed the shocking white of his skin. I straightened the covers for him, plumping the cushions.

He watched TV. He drank. He dozed. He repeatedly made phone calls to Tara, who was now living on the east coast with her new family. “Honey, the kids are giving me a hard time. They’re telling me I’m drinking. I’m not drinking.” He hung up the phone and immediately redialled her number. When again this provoked no response, he reached for a nearby different phone- my father the trickster- as if a different handset might catch her out. Over the course of the day
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