The Legacy We Leave

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My father died fourteen years ago. He was 52 years old and died of a sudden, massive heart attack. Because he threw himself into both sensual and self-destructive pursuits with abandon, I had known that he wasn't going to be the next Methusela. But still, his death caught me off guard and, if I'm being honest, angered me. He wasn't going to get to be a grandfather; he wasn't going to be able to take advantage of the opportunity life was giving him to redeem himself as a parent to my half-sister; he wasn't going to be around for us to enjoy each other's company--and he brought it on himself (or so I said, inwardly). And, because I was pregnant with my second child when he died, I had no…
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