Amanda Pruett

Original Draft

My Confession

I have always imagined how this day would feel. My name announced into the microphone and a round of applause just for me. I would walk across the stage, shake the hands of the faculty members while placing my fingers around my diploma. My diploma, no one else’s. My name will be printed on that prestigious piece of paper; not my mother’s, not my father’s, just mine. I know I’ve earned it. Even as I imagine my graceful walk down the aisle, through the new graduates, and back to my seat, I fall. I manage to trip, even in my dreams. I know they will never let me have this. My family has never been the supportive type and I expect they will not begin now. Everything that has gone wrong in our family has managed to be my fault, no matter the situation. My mom couldn’t finish high school because she had to take care of me. When my parents divorced, she couldn’t find a decent job due to her lack of education. My dad became a thief in order to pay for the divorce. He could have afforded it, if he didn’t have to provide for me. I am also the reason for my parents’ divorce; ask my mother, she’ll tell you.

It never mattered that I was only eleven or that she drove my father away. Nope, the only thing she cared about was that I knew about my father’s affair before she did. My age was never a factor to her, but merely her strength and my disability. I was incapable of understanding the severity of the situation. My mother was crazy and my father was gone. Gone is not exactly true. He was present, but between work, selling his stolen cars, and his two girlfriends, there was no time for me; no time to pull me away from the woman whose anger was expressed daily upon my left cheek or directly into my bottom lip. I’ll never forget the day my sixth grade teacher begged me to tell her the truth about my wounds. She cried; I lied. “I fell.” “I ran into the door.” “I’m just clumsy.” She never bought it, but without a true confession, her hands were tied.

My mother couldn’t see the harm in her decisions; instead, she felt she could beat the demon out of me because only a demon would keep me from telling her about my father. I was a daddy’s girl, no question about it. I knew what he was doing was wrong, but I also knew the kind of woman my mother was. Even through the abuse I endured due to his actions, I still could not blame him. But I was eleven and could not bring myself to admit that my mother was abusing me, not just physically but mentally as well. I tried to keep my daily routine and pretend as if nothing was happening, but she could see through it and would never allow me to go a day without begging for her forgiveness. My routine soon changed to waking up to a crazed woman shaking me and asking, “Why?” Then the loud door slam, the sound of the lock, and the finale, “you need to think about what you have done!” I was locked in my room yet again. Oh well, more sleep for me. For my room release, I had say the magic words, “I know what I did was wrong, Mommy. I owe my life to you and I will never betray you again.” Whatever needed to be done, I did. It didn’t matter that I knew she was wrong, but it mattered that I knew what she was capable of. There were no limitations in her words or actions. Eventually, she stopped giving me lunch money and I was brave enough to ask her why. She only responded, “Because you didn’t tell me your dad was giving his penis another woman.” Woman? It was actually women, but why tell her? Nothing mattered anymore. She was crazy, I was doomed, and I had accepted it all.

            The day I turned twelve, my mother was served with divorce papers. I couldn’t hold back anymore. Every emotion that ever filled my body overcame me once more. Knowing how she would react, I still yelled, threw things, and laughed at her for all of the things she ever did to me. How could I let this happen? I thought those papers would protect me. I could not have been more wrong. Every dead bolt in the house was immediately locked and the keys were hidden. The phones were removed from the receivers and were broken. I had no connection with the outside world and was locked in a house alone with her. If there was ever a God, he saved me that day. I do not remember reacting to her blows. All I recall is breaking a window to get out. By the time I made it to our neighbor’s house, I could not speak, breathe, and could barely walk. All of my energy was gone and I only cared about finding my dad. Of course my mother did not come after me. She had a reputation to protect and would never allow another person to see her this way; instead, she got dressed and left the house. I dared not to return home without my dad because I did not know what she left behind.

She came home later that evening with a movie. City of Angels. We were expected to watch it as a family. I have never experienced the amount of disbelief as I had that day. My mother was a different person. She hugged me for the first time in a year. As I flinched, she laughed. Her hug was not meant to sooth me, but was intended to inform me. She was not done. With no other warning, she lost complete control. My father’s strength had never been tested to this extent. After a long battle and many cuts later, she was down. I felt this was all my fault. I knew better than to push her buttons. Why did I laugh when she received the papers? Was I asking for a death threat?

My dad was bleeding, my mother was staring blankly at the wall, and I was hiding in a corner. When my dad started the truck and grabbed me from the corner, I knew he was fine. Though I still felt his blood was on my hands, I felt ease knowing he was okay. My mom willing walked to the truck and sat quietly as we drove her to the hospital. All it took was for the doctor to see my dad’s bite marks and my bruises. She was immediately admitted.

I was free again. I could sleep without fear of being beaten in my sleep. I could go to school without a busted lip and could wear short sleeved shirts again. My life was normal.

*  * * * *

Of course neither girlfriend stuck around when they learned I would be living with my dad. Fixing a damaged stepdaughter was not on their to-do-list. Luckily, my dad managed to catch another one. Luckily, I use that word loosely. I mean, Samantha was nice to me and did great things for me. She taught me how to dress more like a girl instead of a tomboy and took my hair out of the ponytail that it was always in. It wasn’t long after that I realized my new makeover was not for my benefit, but so that she wouldn’t feel embarrassed when seen with me.

She also taught me what it was like to be a stepdaughter and the consequences for stealing away her attention. We were heading home from Huntsville State Park one evening. As I jumped in the truck for the long drive back, Samantha pushed me down and said, “It’s my turn to sit by him.” Was the push really necessary? She was always one for dramatic effect. Of course my dad was in the restroom; nowhere near to hear or see this. My silence went unnoticed the entire trip home.

This was when the weekends away began. I had never had real grandparents before so Samantha took full advantage of her retired parents. Every Friday after school, Samantha’s mother waited for me to arrive home so she could take me back to her house for the weekend. Samantha explained to my dad that it was necessary for me to experience life with grandparents while she made sure I understood that this was her time with my dad and there was no room for me in the mix. I was content with this decision, however. A weekend around people who treated me as if I were their own could not have been any more comforting. I felt truly loved for the first time in years. It wasn’t until the new grandchild came along that I learned I was just the filler. It became obvious that I was only a step-granddaughter and could never fill the shoes of their new grandbaby.

It was no question why I chose to remain isolated in my room. It wasn’t enough that I worked two jobs while in high school, kept straight A’s, and was a member of every possible extracurricular activity. My parents didn’t mind that I paid for the house bills so long as I also remembered to clean up after them as well. I tried to fill all of my free time with anything productive and away from home. But there is just so much one person can do before it’s time to return home. A social life was out of the picture. According to my father, “If you have time to party, you have time for more work.”

A month away from turning twenty-one, I still abided by my midnight curfew. It was then that I realized I was more than this. Without explanation, I moved out. My father and Samantha helped me move my things into my new apartment. Negativity was the only noise that flowed from Samantha’s mouth. “You won’t make it on your own. You will never be able to afford this.” I couldn’t afford this? I had paid most of the bills at my father’s house for four years, but I couldn’t afford this? She then began to cry. I was confused and looked to my dad for reason. He explained that she did not want me to leave. He believed that she would miss me and it was hard for her to see her daughter grow up. No, this was not true. With me gone, she would be responsible for the cooking and cleaning, helping with bills and yard work. I knew her tears were selfish, but I could not help but take pride in them as well. She was the one who had to grow up and be a big girl. I was merely moving on.

Now it’s my day. Time for me to receive the attention I’ve well earned. My focus isn’t on me though. My mother cannot be here; her doctor refused her release. My father has to take off work; a day without pay in my expense. Samantha completed her degree last summer; she keeps reminding me that she finished first. I cannot allow them to take this day away from me. I have been the best daughter I know how to be. I have dealt with every hardship thrown in my direction and achieved every goal I set for myself. It is my fault that I focused on myself these past few years instead of on my family. It is my fault that I am taking attention away from them today and placing it on myself, but I am okay with that. It’s my turn.