del porque le doy la vuelta a mi padre

My father is an alcoholic.  Every time I visit him, he makes a stop at the 7-eleven for a pack of Budweiser.  It scares me and it pisses me off.  He holds me tight and tells me he loves me:  “And you, he asks, tell me how much do you love me? A little or a lot?”  I force a smile, look into him and too afraid to tell him to stop, that he’s killing himself and taking me with him, I am just capable of rolling my tongue out in a simple solution: “A lot”.