My Brother was violent.
And if I annoyed him, he'd hit me.
Then I'd tattle, and my parents would say something along the lines of, "You shouldn't antagonize him." What they really meant was,
I deserved it.
From time to time, I'd stay with my Dad's parents. I loved them,
mostly because they loved me.
What I loved most was that my brother and I were not allowed to hit each other. And if we did, we'd get in trouble.
One time my parents picked us up from them, and my brother had been in some sort of trouble.
My Mother was furious. She screamed all the way home about how it was wrong and that I should have been punished too.
When we got home, my brother and I went down to the basement to play.
By that time we'd learned that the best way to avoid their anger was a run somewhere else.
But this time my parents followed.
My mom and dad screamed at each other. My mother said that I manipulated my grandparents to get my brother in trouble.
She said that the rules weren't the same for me as they were for him because I was their favorite, and I should think about that next time before telling on him.
"That's a lie, right dad?" I said.
"No it's true." He answered.
YOU ARE READING
What My Mother Forgot
Non-FictionBefore reading this, you should know... This is not a happy story. There is no happy ending. Simply put, this is a chronological account of the abuse, neglect, and bullying I suffered at the hands of loved ones from birth to 17 years old. It does no...
