Growing up, I had a mother, father, and brother. We all lived in a small house, and my father worked at the local plant. My mother was a stay at home mom and did everything with my brother and me. We were happy, and all enjoyed spending time together. My father always came home after work, and we ate dinner together.
Father Came Home Later and Later
It only happened a few times a month, but then became almost a daily occurrence where my father wouldn’t come home after work until really late. I remember hearing him stumbling into the house, and when he walked by my room he stunk of cigarettes and another smell I later learned was alcohol. I would go into my brother’s room when the yelling and fighting would start. We were both scared and just held each other until we fell asleep. I began sleeping in my brother’s room every night.
Hearing that Sound
The first night I heard my father hit my mother is stuck in my memory forever. He came home one night, around three in the morning reeking more than ever. His footsteps were heavy, and he was already cussing as he stomped down the hall to their room. My mother was asleep, and he began screaming at her about dinner and what a waste she was. My brother and I heard the slapping and punching sounds, and my mother yelling for him to stop. We both cried ourselves to sleep that night.
Everything Was Not Normal
When we woke up the next morning, we could see the bruises on our mother’s face and arms. She smiled at us and served breakfast, acting as if everything was normal. It disgusted my brother, and me but we said nothing. Our father was sitting at the table, grunting while reading the newspaper. He left for work, and we cornered our mother. She denied everything, saying it was a misunderstanding and we shouldn’t worry.
It Didn’t End
The beatings went on for months, getting worse and worse every time. One night, she stopped screaming so abruptly that my brother ran into the room. I followed behind him and saw my father standing over our mother holding a bat. My brother tackled him, screaming at him to get out. My father started to go after my brother, but I ran in front him. My father stopped and left. My brother picked up my mother and began cleaning her up while I called 911.
He’s Gone, and We Are Free
My father was an alcoholic, and alcohol is no different than any other drug that addicts use. He drank heavily and became abusive to my mother. She put up with it to protect us, saying that we needed a father in our lives. It took a lot of convincing, but she finally understood that it was abuse and wrong. We have never been happier, and our father is gone. Good riddance.