The hallway was long, dark, and cold. There was no mistaking the apartment building for what I imagined it to be. I had made a four-hour drive and now the drive and my very intentions seemed endlessly futile and maybe even a little regretful. The sounds I heard with each step brought back vividly strong memories of my childhood. The sounds of a wailing baby, the obnoxious blare of someone's television, and especially the screaming of an unfamiliar man and woman, these were the voices from my past. Back to a place where so long ago I could not wait to escape. Was coming here really the right thing? Will this provide me with the closure that I am so desperately searching for? This is the only way I will ever know.
Growing up the oldest of four children was never easy. Forced to find work, among other things, at the tender age of thirteen, so that my siblings could survive, made me very resentful of the woman who had brought me into this seemingly bane existence. Why didn't she make better choices for her children? Why couldn't she provide for us the things that were supposed to come natural for a mother? The answers may not be here. .
Leaning against a paint chipped door, I fight with the urge to turn and run. After all, I've been running for seventeen years. What will I say to her? Will she be angry that I have come here to confront her? Is she sorry that she was a bad mother? Does she regret the physical abuse we suffered from her, and leaving us for weeks on end without sufficient food supply or utilities in the musty little apartment? What is she doing in there? Is she alone? Has she been alone for all these years? Will she recognize me when she comes to the door? Will she turn me away, or take me in her arms, sobbing and begging for forgiveness? There is only one way to find out. .
Waiting outside after the first knock seemed to linger on forever. Expecting a haggard old lady, annoyed that she had been disturbed from her intoxicated slumber to open the door, was my biggest concern at this moment.
