I was young, but I was happy. I wouldn't have changed a thing.
My mother, however, didn't see it that way. For reasons I didn't understand until I became an adult and mother myself, the need for financial stability was something my mother craved far more than I ever realized. Due to an injury at work, she was receiving Supplemental Security Income (SSI) and Worker's Compensation. But I guess that wasn't enough for her. She started working under-the-table as a bartender throughout the week, leaving me to stay with my grandparents. While working, she'd meet a lot of men. Gross men. The kind of men who looked like they hadn't showered in three months and were covered in tattoos. Not the cool-looking tattoos, but the ones you probably got in high school after losing a bet. At first I didn't know what she could have possibly seen in these men, after all, they weren't exactly the most physically appealing or even polite, for that matter. One day she began to bring one in particular around more often. She broke the news to me that we would be leaving our trailer to go and live with him in his house. Apparently his home was luxurious. Hard-wood floors throughout, an exquisite choice of paint colors, breathtakingly spectacular interior and exterior design that matched like twins. Yuck. I had no idea how a man with such poor hygiene could afford such a place. And to this day, I almost wish I had never known.
Though we all began to live together, I refused to call him "dad" or look at him as a "parent". He didn't seem to mind this much, our communication was minimal at best. He spoke to mother with perverse and derogatory language, though she constantly made excuses for his behavior. And at night, those cold (and I'm not referring to the temperature) gloomy nights, I could always hear them. I could hear the words. I could hear the wrestling. I could hear the pounding and banging against the walls.
