My Mother stood at the bottom of the stairs...my Father at the top in the doorway of my bedroom.

The hall light was on. I can't remember the words, I remember the blue robe my Mother was wearing.

I got out of my bed and ran to the stairway and stood in front of my Father. A child of 8, maybe 9.

The gun was pointed at me now. "Don't shoot my Dad, please."

I remember sobbing, I don't remember being afraid like any normal child would. I guess you get used to things, children adapt.

My Dad hadn't come home for several days.

Life just carried on as usual, you didn't ask where he was. You didn't upset Mom because she was already being a little mean.

We were all sitting at the dining room table eating breakfast. My 2 older brothers, my sister and I, and Mom.

The car pulled up, the front door opened. Not a word was said, total silence as we continued to eat our breakfast.

Dad walked in. He stood at the end of the table where he sat for the meals he was home for.

He casually picked up a fork from the plate of bacon and threw it at my Mom.

It lodged in her chin. It just stayed there as blood trickled onto the table.

We just continued to eat. Not making any eye contact, not uttering one word.

We knew better.

I spent several weekends of my childhood sleeping behind the couch in the "good" living room.

I felt safe there.

No one really missed me, I doubt they ever looked for me.

It's funny how you really don't know how different your family is as a child.

You view it as normal, it is all you know.

I have accepted my childhood. It did not make me bitter or angry. I have forgiven all that lives in the past.

Whether my siblings have would be up to them as we all live with different painful memories.

We don't talk about it, even to this day.

~Nursey~