Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
My mother catered to him, making sure he got everything he wanted. I couldn’t be loud, I couldn’t make a mess, I couldn’t be a kid. I remember tiptoeing around the house, holding my breath, hoping not to disturb the fragile peace. I couldn't laugh freely, couldn't let my imagination spill into my surroundings. I couldn't be happy.
I'm not entirely sure when my father started cheating on my mother, but it happened. Perhaps it was inevitable. I'm sure he liked the idea of pretending he didn’t have a wife and kid at home, responsibilities that he felt shackled by. He was always chasing after younger women, women with no kids, women who represented the freedom and adoration he craved. It was his way of escaping the life he resented.
My mother just pretended none of it was happening. The cheating, the way he treated me, the way he treated her. She walked about this town smiling and lying about what a great life she had. She wore her denial like a mask, plastering over the cracks in our family’s façade. I would watch her, wondering how she could smile while our world was crumbling, how she could act as if everything was fine while I felt suffocated by the tension and sadness. Her pretense was a survival tactic, a desperate attempt to keep our fractured lives from falling apart completely.
You’d think with his wandering dick, clean house, quiet child, and a wife that was at his beck and call it would make him happy.
It didn’t.
He was still a miserable prick. I spent far too much time hiding in my room, afraid of what I might get in trouble for. One time I brought a couple of little cars out to the living room while he was out fucking someone. It was the most fun. I drove those little cars all over the place. The living room was so much bigger than my bedroom, and I remember I even laughed a few times when the cars sped across the floor, their tiny wheels spinning wildly. For a brief moment, I felt happy. It was fleeting because my mother ran into the room, panic etched on her face, yelling at me to bring the cars back into my room. I grabbed them and ran, closing my door behind me. Disappointment crashed over me because even at that young age, I knew that feeling of freedom and happiness would not return.
I was right. When my father got home, his face contorted with anger, he pushed my bedroom door open, holding one of my little cars. In my rush to hide, I hadn’t noticed I left one behind. He shouted, telling me little boys who can’t clean up don’t get to have nice things. All the while, he gathered every car I had and threw them away. The sight of my toys disappearing into the trash was a punch to the gut, a cruel end to my brief joy.
That was the first night I learned what leather against skin felt like. The belt whistled through the air before it bit into my flesh, the pain searing through me. I sat quietly in the corner, my body trembling, until he finally left my room. Only then did I allow the tears to fall, silent sobs shaking my small frame. They didn’t stop until exhaustion claimed me and I fell asleep, my body aching, my spirit crushed.
I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present. That was the life Callum saved me from. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve survived. He didn’t even know what was going on at my house until years later, but he started inviting me to his house. Callum's home was a sanctuary, a place where laughter wasn’t punished, and messes weren’t met with rage. Of course, my mother was all too happy to have me gone, so it was never a fight. She saw it as one less thing to manage, one less target for my father’s wrath.
Callum’s friendship was a lifeline. His family welcomed me in, never questioning the frequency of my visits. In their home, I experienced a kindness and warmth that was foreign to me. It was there, in those stolen moments of peace and safety, that I began to heal, slowly piecing together the shattered fragments of my childhood.
I stayed at the Atwood house, pretending they were my real family. The kids were loud and happy. There was laughter, talking, and endless amounts of fun. The Atwood home was a symphony of joy and chaos, the complete opposite of the oppressive silence of my own home. When I was there, I felt that happiness that had been thrown in the trash, a happiness that had once seemed out of reach.
As we got older and I confided in Callum about how awful my house was, he never judged me or my shitty parents. He just listened, his face a mask of concern and understanding, never interrupting, never making me feel small for sharing my pain. He invited me over every chance he got, offering me an escape from the hell I lived in. I slept on a blowup mattress on his bedroom floor more than I slept in the bed at my house, and I loved it. That thin mattress was more comfortable than my own bed because it came with a sense of safety and belonging.