The Nomadic Life

TRIGGER WARNING PYSICAL VIOLENCE

Chapter 5

The Night Everything Changed

In October of 1971, I clutch the hand of a woman who is a stranger to me yet somehow familiar as well. I am to accept that this is my biological mother. She leads me into a world that feels as foreign as a distant land, one filled with faces I do not know yet am expected to call family.

The tall, thin man she instructs me to call "Daddy" barely acknowledges me with a nod. A boy with golden hair and truly white skin is introduced to me as Roy Junior. He is only six years old and seems as baffled by these strange events as I, and stares at me with great curiosity. Beside him sits my older brother, who has changed beyond recognition since our separation five years earlier. And lastly, an older sister who I never knew and therefore do not remember. The only person here I share any common features with is the woman I am told to call Mommy. My olive skin and dark eyes stand out amidst the older brother and sister’s strawberry blonde hair, baby blues, and fair complexions. It seems obvious I do not belong here, but fate does not agree.

As days turn to weeks, I struggle to reconcile this new life against the structured predictability of the orphanage. Though I despised the way I was treated by the nuns and children there, it was the only home I knew.

The weight of unspoken questions presses heavily on my chest. Why now? Why, after all these years, has my mother chosen this moment to reclaim me? Her silence on the matter speaks louder than any answer ever could.

At first, I try to find my place within this family, to mold myself into their rhythms and expectations. But the veneer of normalcy quickly begins to crack. My stepfather is a man of quiet cruelty, his temper simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest provocation. Alcoholism fuels his rage, and I become his favored target. A misplaced glass, an abandoned toy, a hesitant word, even the simple act of existing in his space can set him off.

One night, I knock over a glass at dinner. It shatters on the floor like an omen, and within seconds, so do I. My stepfather rises slowly, deliberately, before unleashing his wrath. The blows land with calculated precision, leaving marks that outlast the pain. That night, as I lay curled beneath the thin sheets and blanket, I try to understand what it is I did that caused the man to hate me so. As no answer comes, I nurse the bruises hidden beneath a long-sleeve shirt as heat emanates from welts on my skin. Too young to comprehend why these things happen, I cry myself to sleep.

I find solace in school. It is my sanctuary where I can disappear into books and lessons, where the weight of an unstable home momentarily lifts. Silence and lies become my truest survival tools. I learn to mask the truth with carefully crafted stories, to feign normalcy, to wear long sleeves even in the heat. But there remain times when even the most imaginative use of oversized clothing cannot hide the bruises and marks left behind. On those occasions, I am forced to miss school as my mother’s husband does not want to raise suspicions. If asked, I am ordered to tell lies like, "I tripped and fell, causing my lip to be busted," or "I bumped into a door that left a knot on my head," and several more excuses he concocts. The want to escape this existence becomes my obsession and dream.

Determined to break free, if only mentally, I begin documenting every incident, writing them down in journals I hide away from prying eyes. Each entry is a lifeline, a step toward reclaiming my personal narrative. As my absences from school become more frequent and the bruises harder to ignore, I hear whispers among teachers and see glances exchanged in hushed concern, but no help or understanding is ever offered. It soon becomes apparent that I can count on only myself.

At sixteen, everything shatters.

I have never been a fighter. I use humor to sidestep conflict at school and silence to keep peace at home. But no matter how careful I am, I can never control others. And Senior, always with a beer in his hand and inebriated, is a ticking time bomb.

I can’t remember what sparks the fight that night, only that Junior says or does something that sends Senior into a rage. First, the shouting. Then, the sight of a butter knife sailing across the room. But Junior doesn’t back down.

They clash, their fury carrying them into Senior’s mother’s bedroom. My mother, small and unsteady from the drinks she’s had, throws herself between them, desperate to end the confrontation. I stand frozen, watching. This is between father and son, and I feel it is not my place to intervene. But I will step in if Junior needs my help. I am forced into action when Senior shoves my mother aside, her head hitting against the metal edge of the window air conditioning unit. Seeing this, something within me snaps.

The next moments are a blur. I remember only fragments. My body springs into action before my mind catches up, stepping between my younger brother and the man who has tormented us for years. This time, things are different. I am grown and now nearly as tall as he is. I am also stronger and no longer a child.

Years of suppressed fury explode, my fists fueled by every moment of fear, every insult, every bruise he has inflicted upon me in the past. I wrestle him onto his mother’s bed, my rage relentless. And I would have kept going, kept striking, until he was nothing but a memory.

Then I hear her voice.

“He’s had enough,” my mother says, her tone eerily calm. “He’s had enough.”

She knows better than to touch me in that moment. But her words find their way through the hate-filled daze, cooling the fire just enough. I stand, breathing hard, and shove his limp body off the bed. With a muffled thud, he hits the floor.

And then, unbelievably, he gets up.

He comes at me again, staggering, determined. I retreat to the room Junior and I share, grabbing a small wooden stool Senior built for us. I raise it high, bracing myself.

“Put that down and fight me like a man,” he slurs.

I do not move. I do not speak. I just meet his bloodshot gaze and hold my ground.

“You’re a coward,” he shouts. “Put it down. Let’s finish this.”

This time, I cannot stay silent.

“I’m holding this for your protection,” I shoot back, my voice steady. “Because even as drunk as you are, you’re not stupid enough to charge me now. You know if you do, I won’t hesitate. I will end this.”

Something in my eyes must tell him I mean it. He sways on his feet, his breath ragged. And then, for the first time, I see it on his face and in his eyes, hesitation. Fear.

He turns away, slinking back into the kitchen. “Get him out,” he barks at my mother. “He’s never setting foot in this house again.”

I could not be happier to oblige.

At sixteen, I am working at a local café, so I know I can do this. That is until Junior announces he is going with me.

To this day, I do not understand why our mother allows Junior to leave with me that night, and I guess I never will. We never again speak of that incident. Now, not only do I have to fend for myself, but I have a thirteen-year-old to look after as well.

Out on my own and having to care for my brother is not easy. A rebellious teenager, Junior tests my patience daily and it takes strength I never knew I possess to survive this challenging time in my life. It is the unwavering belief that there is a world out there where love is not conditional, and family is not defined by fear that keeps me going.

Years later, free from the tangible chains but still haunted by the invisible ones, I vow never again to mistake silence for acceptance or lies for protection. The scars remain but no longer define me. I will build a life on my own terms, forging relationships rooted in trust, love, and honesty.

Through it all, I learn the most valuable truth: family is not just about blood. It is about those who choose you, who see you, who stand by you, not out of obligation, but out of love.