I WAS NINE when I first thought my dad wished I wasn't his son.
It was the end of the summer break in 2003. I was chilling at my boxy, white Ikea desk, etching bubble-lettered maxims onto my school folders, when I heard him shriek to my mum: “He wrote ‘beast’ on his school books, Angela. It should say ‘best’. Corey is the beast – what's wrong with him?”
It turned out I had dyslexia and a truckload of learning disabilities, but those harsh words stayed with me. Sometimes, still, I feel unworthy of his love and respect.
Dim, my dad, is a soft-hearted and, with the intelligence of Walter White from
