My father had a gambling problem that got him killed. He was addicted to gambling the way other men are addicted to drinking or doing drugs— obsessively, irrationally. One day, in a bid to try to keep him from spending what little money we had left, Maman hid the cash between my toys.
At first, my father asked for it nicely.
He tried to reason with Maman, to justify his actions. He offered me candy that we didn’t have in return for telling him where she’d stashed the money. He talked to us in a syrupy sweet voice and gave us the most attention we’d ever received from him.
When that didn’t work, he started to get mad.
He tore our tiny house apart looking for the money. I remember thinking he looked like a monster with his red face and the spittle flying out of his mouth.
He destroy
