My friend wrote a story– hit me in the gut. Here it is. Not my words, hers:
We used to hide in the closet not knowing if our mom was dead or alive. She had a scholarship but my Pap-pap got sick so we moved in and she hung out with the wrong people.
She wouldn’t go to school because people would make fun of her. Her stepmom used to lock her and my brother in the basement, crack eggs on their heads, beat them…
She raised me, never had a minute without me unless I was with my Grams.
We had a boat. My dad loved her as his own. We three were always on the boat. We used to have to go chop wood and drag it and it was cold.
They were cheap so they used the fireplace, ugh-deer meat! They made us eat deer meat. I refused to eat it. She did dishes, so I would spit it in a cup and she would throw it away for me.
End Part 1