I think I’m going to kill my husband and then kill myself, says my dad

I’ve always been one for stories that involve family.

When my father, a retired bureaucrat, passed away in 2003, I immediately started writing stories on his death.

It was a strange and unexpected way to begin the year, and I couldn’t have been happier with the result.

A month after his death, I started writing my father’s obituary, in which I described him as an extremely devoted father who was also an avid tennis player.

I wanted to write about how he had a deep, abiding love for tennis and, in turn, for his son, who had become one of the great tennis players of all time.

And it was clear that I was writing about him, not just about his life but about me.

That year, I wrote several stories about my father in the days leading up to his death: How he met his wife, the first love of his life, and how his marriage to his second wife left him feeling lonely and broken.

What he would have said to me when I asked him how I could best help him.

And, perhaps most importantly, how I would go about raising him as the next generation of tennis stars.

What I’d say to him as a young boy when he wanted to win.

The stories that I wrote about my dad in the years leading up the funeral are all in my father and son’s books.

My father had died in a car crash on January 4, 2003, while I was six months old.

As a young child, I had a very strong interest in sports, particularly baseball.

I was always fascinated by the story of Billy Beane, the legendary baseball player and Hall of Famer who spent his career in the majors in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

And my mother was an avid reader.

One of the few things I remember of my father being alive in the 1970s was that he had just turned 11 and had just returned from playing for the Baltimore Orioles.

As he turned into an adult, I also began to read the baseball books.

In the years following his death I continued to write stories about the lives of his friends and colleagues, particularly those of his teammates, the Hall of Famers.

He was also a tennis player, and he had played at least one match for the US Open, the grand slam championships in which the likes of Roger Federer, Andy Roddick, and Andy Rourke took home the majors.

It wasn’t just stories that he wrote about his friends; he also wrote about them as well.

I think that I’ve got about three or four of them, including the one about my family.

The day before my father passed away, my mother had a conversation with her son about how I might help him in his final years.

He said that he was very, very proud of me, and that I should take him to his house for dinner every night.

He also said that my mother, my sister, and his friends would always be there for him, even when he was away.

I felt relieved.

After all, he’d never been away from me.

When I got to my dad’s house, he was sitting in a chair in the living room.

He didn’t speak, but his eyes were fixed on a television screen in the room.

I sat in front of him, on a couch that had been lovingly designed by my parents, and asked him what was going on.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It’s too soon.”

I told him that my father had passed away a few days earlier.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Then I won’t be able to do anything.”

My father said that it would be hard to say goodbye to him.

I knew that, but I was too young to really know that, and it made me feel guilty for thinking about it.

I said goodbye and hugged him, telling him that I didn’t want to leave him.

“You won’t,” he told me.

I cried and hugged my father.

I asked him if I could help him write his obit, because he had been a great tennis player in the early 1980s, and because he needed help with his writing skills.

I also asked him whether I could stay at his house while he was writing his obits.

“Of course,” he replied.

As soon as I left the house, my father said goodbye to me and walked toward the front door of his home.

I went to the front of the house and began walking back to my house.

As I walked past the front entrance, I saw that my mom and dad were waiting for me.

“What are you doing?” they asked.

I looked back and saw that I hadn’t left my room yet.

I told them that I’d be going to bed, and they both looked at me in surprise.

Mom and Dad both said that they knew what was coming,