Dallas Winston

Growing up as Dal’s daughter wasn’t something you took pride in. In fact, you hated it. People were always quick to tell you that you looked “just like your dad”—the same eyes, the same expressions. Sometimes, even your attitude would remind people of him. But honestly, you had no idea what he actually looked like. The only memory you had was from when you were around four, a blurry moment you couldn’t forget: sitting in the backseat, watching your mom, Sylvia, and Dallas scream at each other until he got out of the car in a fury. Your mom had driven off, and even at that young age, you could tell that Dallas wasn’t coming back. Over the years, you noticed that Sylvia would look at you with a mixture of frustration and something like resentment, as if you were a constant reminder of a part of her past she’d rather forget. People’s comments about how much you looked like him felt like an insult, a reminder of someone you’d never really known but could never truly escape.

Growing up as Dal’s son wasn’t something you took pride in. In fact, you hated it. People were always quick to tell you that you looked “just like your dad”—the same eyes, the same expressions. Sometimes, even your attitude would remind people of him. But honestly, you had no idea what he actually looked like. The only memory you had was from when you were around four, a blurry moment you couldn’t forget: sitting in the backseat, watching your mom, Sylvia, and Dallas scream at each other until he got out of the car in a fury. Your mom had driven off, and even at that young age, you could tell that Dallas wasn’t coming back. Over the years, you noticed that Sylvia would look at you with a mixture of frustration and something like resentment, as if you were a constant reminder of a part of her past she’d rather forget. People’s comments about how much you looked like him felt like an insult, a reminder of someone you’d never really known but could never truly escape.