Into each life some rain must fall, observed Wadsworth. But no one knew that better than Matthew Doerr. At 51 years of age, he’d yet to experience one day without deluge. Picked on as a child, under- or unemployed in young life, now twice divorced and crushing the scale at over 300 pounds, Doerr was soaked to the skin.
“Mom!” he wailed, tossing his bags toward his bed and collapsing into the Partridge Family-themed beanbag chair his mother had never removed from his bedroom, “Is there any ice cream?”
“I don’t think so, dear,” came the reply from downstairs.
He let his chins fall against his chest. Moving back home wasn’t going to be the ray of sunshine for which he’d so long hoped.
(To be continued)
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