PART 1
Three years before my father called me a parasite, I believed paying for his luxury penthouse was one of the most loving things I had ever done.
After my mother died following a short illness, my father, Richard Hale, seemed to lose his ability to function.
He stopped opening his mail.
He forgot to eat.
Some nights, I found him sitting alone in the dark, replaying old videos of Mom laughing in our kitchen.
At the time, I had been saving for a condo of my own.
But
