It made no sense. We weren’t a poor family — in fact, we were far from that. Both my parents earned more than enough to provide a comfortable life. My father, Henry, was a regional manager for a popular retail store. And my mother, Lydia, was a nurse. We were fine. And yet, my school years were marred by spending Saturday mornings at thrift stores, looking for hand-me-down clothes. My social life and birthday parties were basically non-existent, because attending these events meant buying gifts, and that was something my mother found utterly incomprehensible. Pocket money? That was a foreign concept to my mother.But then, a diary entry changed everything. Growing up, my father was my favorite. “Oh, Cara,” he said, every night when he came to switch my bedroom light off. “You’re my little light, you know that?” Throughout my childhood, my father littered my bleak existence with joy. He would sneak in little treats, secrets trips to the movies when mom was working, and sometimes, he would simply buy me cotton candy — my favorite sweet treat. On the other side of it all, was my mother. She barely interacted with me, always lost in her own daydreams. But when it came to buying groceries, or switching off the lights, she was alert and strict.