I had sense enough to keep a low profile and never make eye contact with the instructors whenever they lashed out at my squadron. I performed my duties as quickly and precisely as possible, and, most important, I made certain to keep my stuttering mouth clamped shut. Whenever I had a free moment, Id crank out epic letters of my misadventures to my foster parents, my aviation mentor Michael Marsh from my days in foster care, and my father. Every day in the late afternoon our squadron received mail call, and every day my heart pounded with excitement. But the only letters I received regularly were crumpled ones addressed to my father with RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the envelope. After a few weeks I gave up trying to reach Father through the mail, so I tried to keep close to him through my prayers. After saying my evening prayers I would roll over, feeling relieved that I had truly escaped Mothers tangled web of hate and deceit. I knew she could no longer manipulate or harm me in any way.
