The first time he left I was eight. My world spun upside down within seconds of his departure. I remember our wooden front door being shut with an aggressive slam followed by the cry of my mother from upstairs. I could hear her weeping late through that night, deserting her warm bed for the white walls of the bathtub. They enclosed her with cold, sharp feelings that withered through her soul. With her arms crossed over her drawn up knees, a shriek crawled up her throat and broke through her teeth, sending chills running down my spine. I was not be able to fall asleep until her screams of distress ceased. My father not only left my mother with a crushed and abandoned heart, but me with the endless search for love and comfort. It is now that I realize he was the key source of her depression and the reason I was never able to learn how to love.

“Meredith! Can I go scooter down the road?” I was eight years old and summer was just coming to a close. For all eight year olds, including myself, the thought of school was unbearable. So, to distract my mind, I decided to get some fresh air. Meredith, my loving nanny, stood at the foot of our front door with her hands on her big hips. She was around fifty years old, or so I assumed. Her gray hair sat perched on the top of her head, and I giggled every time she would talk because it would move like a bobblehead. Meredith was sweet, caring, but very assertive. She taught me how to be respectful, responsible and independent. I never got away with anything, but my good deeds were always positively reinforced with warm hugs and kisses. She had been raising me ever since my mother gave birth to me in the hospital. My mother was always a minor influential figure in my life, if that at all. She worked long hours at a big office somewhere in a city, and when she returned home, she was too tired to attend to my needs.

The tension between my parents started when my dad went to a bar late one night and didn’t come back until three in the morning. This turned into a habit. My mother would stay up waiting for him in bed, embedding herself in the cold sheets. When the sheets would not comfort her, she would escape to the bathtub, an unlikely spot to find safety and comfort, but it suited her. The white tile walls separated her from the outside world; the world where her husband didn’t want her. The world where he used her steady income to buy beer and things that would satisfy his needs. My mother’s passive attitude emerged when he spoke to her directly. She had always been considered weak against higher authorities and most of the time was afraid to speak up. Her reserved personality allowed my father to gain control over her. Even though she knew he was headed downhill, visiting the bar five out of seven nights in the week and going to work hungover in the mornings, she couldn’t do anything about it because he was the king of the castle. He was the man of the house. Anything he said my mother must obey or she would be punished with a slap. Verbal and physical abuse from my father tore my mother apart. The bathtub’s silver faucet released hot water when my mother spun the handle and she would run her long, bony, pail fingers under the warmth of it. The temperature of the water would remind her of the warm heart her husband used to have. The days were happier before he started drinking. He would come home with a kiss for her, smiles, and a big paycheck. My parents would laugh and curl up next to each other to watch tv. Sometimes, my father would even take the three of us downtown for dinner and a movie. But everything changed.

My mother and I hardly spoke, and I gained my morals and values from Meredith. I considered her my real mother. She taught me everything there was to know, and I kept her words close to my heart so if she ever left me one day, I would not lose her spirit inside me. I was lucky if my mother greeted me when she walked through the front door after long days at work. I didn’t expect much affection from her, and she didn’t expect much from me. That’s probably the one similarity we shared. We could not communicate because we had no knowledge of how to do so. The hopes of being a normal family slipped away the more my father drank. I was forced to become more independant. I cooked my own meals when Meredith was busy, when my parents were at work or when my dad was drinking since he hardly went to work by then. Things seemed to be falling apart, but I was too young to imagine what this meant for the future.

I was only eight when my life came to an end out of no where. It all happened instantly and I wasn’t given enough time to process the drastic events that unfolded in front of me. It was the start to the second month of school. I remember it like it was yesterday. The classroom phone rang and my teacher motioned me into the hall. My tears built up and the more alone I felt, the glossier my eyes became. My teacher sympathetically informed me that my mother was sent to the hospital because of a rib injury. While she was bleeding profusely, Meredith had seized the phone to call 911. My mother kept saying she didn’t know how it happened, and Meredith was forced to go along with the same story, but I knew perfectly well what the truth was. I might have been young, but I was not oblivious. My father had beaten her probably after I left for school that morning. He hardly went to work anymore and I assume was heavily intoxicated. The next piece of news hit me like a brick. My sweet, sweet Meredith had been fired by my father after she locked herself in the bathroom to call 911. She can’t be fired; it’s not possible. She’s my role model, my light in this dark life, my happiness. What will I do without her?

After my mother recovered and came back home, life was...awkward. She wasn’t quite sure how to talk to me, or interact with me. When I wasn’t in school, I would try to get away from the dark and gloomy house. I rode my scooter up and down our street, or sat on my swing in the backyard while the crisp autumn air and bright leaves swirled around me. A hummingbird flitted above my head. He seemed to say, “Take my wing and escape. Take my wing and never look back.” Oh, how I wish I could. But I snapped back into reality and there was no escape from the the house that I dreaded to re-enter.

My father threatened to leave my mother and me, but reconsidered multiple times because he would not be able to support himself without money. I couldn’t even look at my mother. She let him hit her and walk all over her like she was a piece of dirt. I wanted to say something, but if I went to school with even the smallest mark on my body, my teacher would report me and I would have to go to guidance. Nights at home felt like centuries. I would lay awake for hours, listening to my father’s voice tremble with rage over something stupid and my mother attempting to respond but wasn’t being given the chance. Words slipped through her thin, colorless lips, but did not make it to my father’s ears. He would shout before she could finish her sentences. Night after night, day after day, arguments arose. But one day, it all stopped. My father came home one morning from a long night at the bar and declared he had met a woman who loved him more than my mother ever could. He decided to move into an apartment with her and divorce my mother. And that was that. The first time my dad left I was eight.

The second time he left I was ten. He had returned with only one purpose: to retrieve his last belongings. A worn down armchair, his old baseball cap and glove, his razor, Gillette shaving cream, his mini fridge and the few lingering beer bottles inside of it. I peaked my head around the doorway separating the living room and his office and watched as he chugged down one of his Bud Lights. With the back of his strong, big hand, he wiped the remains of the drink off his mustache and let out a big sigh of satisfaction. His broad chest slowly moved up and down with every breath he took. His round stomach poured over his belt which struggled to hold up his jeans. We did not make eye contact, or even speak to one another. My mother sat in the shadows of our kitchen, emotionally detached from us. This was among the strongest memories of my childhood. Each memory contained the image of my father consuming bottles of beers within an hour while my mother just watched, never speaking a word. He reached for another after the last disappeared into the recycling bin with a crash. The cycle would continue throughout the day. This time, he left nothing behind him except his wife and child. My mother, from then forward, was just a blank face with an absent mind, and I was a lonesome child, who longed to be loved. Together we struggled to communicate, regain emotional strength, and love one another.