The Book I Didn’t Write is my story told one chapter at a time—raw, honest, and sometimes uncomfortable. These are the pages I carried for 30 years, the ones I always said I’d turn into a book. Instead, I’m sharing them here, week by week. From loss and heartbreak to the stubborn thread of faith that held me together, this is life as it really happened—porch-style, not pulpit-style
The Book I Didn’t Write
She killed my dad, made bail, and moved right back into his house like it was hers. I turned 33 years old eleven days later with nothing but grief, a van full of fireworks, and my brother Jeff. For thirty minutes, we got to flip the script — until the deputies came knocking.
The Book I Didn’t Write
I spent the day before with my dad—talking fuel tanks and aircraft mods like we always did. Twenty-four hours later, I was identifying his body in a hospital room, eyes stitched shut from a gunshot wound. His wife—twenty years younger—was already in custody.