Home sweet home is where the heart is

I was much younger when I refused to come home while I was staying with my father’s elder sister. It was such a care-free time spending with my cousins and aunt. I was particularly close to my cousin who was 2 years my junior.

I was released from the feeling of walking on the tightrope. Out of the sight of my mother, there wasn’t any gnawing fear of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I found a safe haven in my aunt’s house.

One night, my happy bubble was burst when my parents came to fetch me home. Before I got into the car I’d asked mother whether she would return me to my aunty. I had this mistaken notion that my parents only came for a visit and took me out for dinner. My mother gave me an affirmative.

I was pretty disoriented when I woke up and found myself back in my own house. My father just turned his car into the driveway.

“You told me you would take me back to Aunt’s house.” Those were my first words.

To show her how serious I was in wanting to be with my aunt, I ran out to the road. My mother ran after me and dragged me into the house. Undeterred, I ran back to the road and my mother was equally undeterred, ran after me.

The next time I ran out it was my father who dragged me and then beat me with the dog leash.

“Your father doesn’t love you,” my mother taunted me. That night I cried myself to sleep. It hurt deeply to feel like a “nobody’s” child. It wouldn’t have mattered if my father had showed me otherwise. He had never protected me during the beatings.

My mother reminded me constantly of the one time that my father had ever beaten me. It had never been a good feeling when she’d made it a common knowledge in the family.

When I was old enough to think, I realized why my father did what he had to do. He did it out of fear that I would have run into an oncoming vehicle.