The year he loved me most, he found out my father planned to hand me over to a casino owner to settle a debt. He broke into my house with a knife pressed to my father's throat.
He cursed the whole time. Broke three of my father's ribs. And took me with him.
"Betty's with me now."
"You touch her again, I'll kill you."
From that day on, he became one of the few lights in my life.
Not many people where we grew up could afford school, but Kenneth hustled on the streets and paid my tuition out of his own pocket.
He said, "I'm not cut out for books. But a girl should get an education."
Later, I spent my days in a school uniform and canvas sneakers, playing the good girl. At night, I'd slip into a black camisole and stockings and follow him around, learning to smoke, to drink, to fight.
At our lowest, we couldn't even afford a clinic visit for a broken bone. We'd split a single bowl of rice between us for the whole day.
I remembered the first time my pinky finger cracked open. He knelt outside the clinic door all night, begging, until they gave him one bottle of medicine.
After that, whenever he looked at my crooked pinky, he'd cry and say he was sorry.