All memories start with “I clearly remember it was…”, and this one is no different. I clearly remember the night my mother opened the front door as I approached after getting stood up at the high school football game. I was rather morose as I looked up at her. But that moroseness turned to trauma, as I realized I was staring up at a woman who was covered in bruises. Everywhere I looked she was covered; wrists, neck, face. I couldn’t believe she was standing. Moreover, I couldn’t believe that this was my mother; my beautiful, slip of a powerful woman, mother. And I clearly remember my ugly soul of a father - lying back in his recliner, totally at peace with himself for what he had just done. Meanwhile, a volcano was erupting inside of me.

I knew there had been terrible arguments, but this was the first time I had seen anything like this. Then I stop and think maybe I had seen something, but I was probably too engrossed in being a dysfunctional teenager to notice.
 

This was a horrible scene. Me standing on the porch with my mouth dropped open in anger, fear, and confusion. All the previous issues of being stood up vanished. My reset button was pushed. Especially when, with her next breath, she whispered to me “Don’t say anything.”

And I didn’t, for twenty-five years. I never spoke to him again after that night except a yes or no to avoid any further repercussions. My mom was able to leave, safely and successfully, although he had stolen most of her money. And we struggled for a while until she found her feet again.

I always went back to that “Don’t say anything.”

And it took me twenty-five years to decide to say something. Something like that weighs heavily on your soul, especially for an aspiring writer, because all we want to DO is say things. Constantly.