1968 was a year of profound adjustment for our family. Since Dad walked out in late 1967, Mom found herself trapped in a cycle of sorrow, spending endless hours with tears glistening in her eyes. Our home was a high-rise apartment in bustling Pennsauken, New Jersey, where she tirelessly juggled her responsibilities as a dedicated nurse at a local hospital. During her off-hours, she often sank into a deep silence, staring blankly at the flickering television screen, while I felt like a shadow, largely ignored in the chaos of her grief. My older brothers soon moved out, unable to cope with the weight of her depression, leaving me feeling even more isolated. Dad frequently spoke of Margaret, his supposed new flame, extolling her youth and beauty. In reality, she was far from striking, but beauty, as they say, is a matter of perspective.

Whenever I spent a day with Dad, I found myself largely invisible to him as well. By the age of three, I had learned to fend for myself out of necessity. Aside from those rare mornings when one of my brothers would drop by to hand me a bowl of cereal, I became adept at preparing my own meals; a remarkable feat for a child in the 1960s. Independently, I taught myself to bathe and dress, taking pride in the small triumphs of managing daily life alone.

One vivid memory lingers in my mind: the time Robert got caught up in legal trouble, with the police hot on his trail for several months. He was involved with a free-spirited blonde hippie who exuded a strong attitude and was deeply entangled in a serious marijuana addiction. Despite the turmoil surrounding his life, I remained blissfully cocooned in my own world, engrossed in my activities. It wasn't until the following year that the fabric of our lives began to unravel in more dramatic ways.