When I finally arrived, my father was standing in the yard. The moment he saw me, I knew I was in trouble. He looked at me in a way I’ll never forget. I tried to come up with excuses in my head, but before I could even lie, he asked, "Where did you get all that?"
I told the truth—I’d stolen the money from the church. He didn’t let me finish before he exploded in anger, smashing everything I was holding. Then, he turned to me, slapping and punching me, demanding to know why I had to steal. As if the physical punishment wasn’t enough, he took off his belt and beat me with it. I screamed, and eventually, my mother intervened.
That day stayed with me. No one had ever hit me like that before. But in some twisted way, I’ve forgiven it, because it kept me from stealing again. Every time I even thought about it, I felt the sting of that belt. It was a harsh lesson—one that could’ve been taught in a kinder way—but, as I was told, "I was a man, so I had to be treated like one."
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