Lessons

You once told me to never let anyone put their hands on me. So, what was I supposed to do when you put your hands on her?

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The first lesson you taught us was to never let anyone put their hands on us.

You had me and Anna sat on the couch. You were telling us to never let a man put his hands on us. No matter who he was. No matter how much we loved him. No matter how much he said he loved us.

You said never let anyone put their hands on us. You even called dad in to tell us.

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My next lesson was when I was seven. When I was seven you would sit me in the kitchen with you and teach me how to cook basic meals. Why did you do that? I didn't need to know that. I didn't need those skills yet.

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Oh.

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The next time you sat us down was to tell us that dad was gone. That we needed to start pitching in to help raise the other four kids you had. You started picking up extra shifts, working longer hours, staying late to attend your night school classes.

Not that there was anything wrong with you going back to school; I just wish you would've said something before you started disappearing. I missed my dad. I missed my mom. I missed being able to be a sister.

I had to grow up and become somebody's mother. Do you know how hard it was? Being eleven and doing laundry, cooking for five other children, cleaning the house, even bathing the younger ones. All while struggling with my math homework and Anne studying for all her Junior High classes.

You'd come home ,and I was passed out from exhaustion with my homework stuck on my face. You wouldn't even wake me. I'd wake up with a crick in my neck, and then I'd go wake the kids and make sure they got ready for school. I'd make breakfast ,and make sure they all ate.

Then, right before the bus would come, I'd go into your room and shake you awake. I'd go to school tired, but it was okay because the kids were okay. Because, you were okay.

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That was years ago. Yet somehow, it's only recently that we've been somewhat relieved of our duties. We've been raising your kids since we were 7 and 8, and now we're in our teen years.

Her personality has started to shine through, and her facial features are very defined; I don't think you like that she's like him. That she looks like him.

Their noses are the same. She has his eyes and his hair. She has his lips. She has his complexion . And she doesn't take your shit- just like him.

My father was good. He tried his best and I want to say so did you.

(TW: Violence against a child)

But what I think is the most defining difference between you and him is- He would never lay his hands on us. Not the way you did to her.

You held her down and beat her with that cord.

You chased her out of the house with that damn cord.

You dragged her down onto the ground.

You made sure everyone watched as you leaped at her and punched her like it was a school fight.

You heard her say she wasn't going to fight you back. That she wasn't going to fight her mom.

You let your father drag her to his room and leave her thrown on the floor.

When I tried to get to her, to comfort her, hold her and try to tell her everything was going to be alright, you watched as your sister held me by my arms and wouldn't let me go.

You heard my cries of,

"She's my sister."

"I have to help her."

"Let her go."

"You're going to hit her, let me take her."

and you still watched as your father and sister tried to get he to shut up by pushing my back roughly against the wall.

That was one of the many lessons that you didn't teach me. If my own mother wasn't going to have my back, why would anyone else?