I don't know if they thought I was asleep, that I was too young to understand the altercation, or if they neglected my presence altogether. Either way, every night I could hear them. I'd pretend to be asleep whenever my mother would come in to check on me, but I'd lie awake listening until eventually I heard a door slam and a car back out of the driveway and into the gloomy night. It was usually my mother who was lucky enough to get out of the house. Unlucky for me, I was left alone in the house. With him.
Growing up, it had always been just my mother and me. My biological father abandoned me at birth and hadn't been heard from since. The sting of abandonment had me in and out of counselor's offices for a few years, but I eventually grew to really enjoy the bond my mother and I had created. We didn't have much money. In fact, even that would be an understatement. We were living in a trailer park, getting benefits from the state, and I learned at an early age the myth about Santa Claus because my mother couldn't handle the guilt of trying to explain why my next door neighbors always got the presents they wanted when I didn't. As afraid as she was of my reaction, I didn't mind. I felt that I had everything I needed. I was close with most of my family and our trailer was comfortable and large enough to occupy the two of us. The park was essentially its own little neighborhood and all of us went to the same school, which meant I was surrounded by lots of friends. I never saw the need for money. The state provided us with Food Stamps to buy groceries, we went thrift store shopping on a regular basis that it became routine, and in the early mornings before the garbage trucks came, we'd drive around to see if anyone had thrown anything of value out. It felt like a great life. And the best part? My mom didn't work, so she was always around. We'd spend our days doing everything together and had built such a close relationship that I felt that I could tell her anything.
