GregKidd

I knew, for my adult life at least, that my father was documenting his life.

He said it was in part for me, but there was definitely a drive to speak. To explain who he was and why.

I had read parts of it. Some provided, some stolen moments when he left his computer open. Some of it hurt when he was writing about me or my mother in terms I didn’t recognise from my own lived experience. When I was younger that was a particular type of pain. Before I understood that “my” experience wasn’t everyone’s.

What I didn’t realise was that Dad had been facilitating people’s stories for literally decades. Since before I was born.

He didn’t speak about that when I was younger that I can remember. He spoke of business ventures. Of a house. Of Charleville. But not this.

I knew he had a writing business with my Aunt but I guess I assumed it was the same as the editing and proofreading one he had while I was a teenager.

But here I am. Reading news articles about his endeavours.