By the time I was ten, I was totally ashamed of my father.
All my friends called him names: Quasi-Moto, hunchback, monster, little Frankenstein, the crooked little man with the crooked little cane.
At first, it hurt when they called him those things, but soon I found myself agreeing with them. He was ugly, and I knew it!
My father was born with something called parastremmatic dwarfism. The disease made him stop growing when he was about thirteen and caused his body to twist and turn into a grotesque shape.
It wasn't too bad when he was a kid. But soon after my birth, things started getting worse.
Another genetic disorder took over, and his left foot started turning out, almost backward. His right arm curled in and up, and his index finger almost touched his elbow.
His walk became slow, awkward, and deliberate. I hated to be seen with him. Everyone stared. They seemed to pity me.
By the time I was seventeen, I was blaming all my problems on my father.