That night when mum finally left him, that was courage too, I suppose.
In many different shapes.
I never forget it.
I have it tattooed on my soul.
I was 12 years old.
Old enough to sense something was rotten in the state of Denmark.
Too young to think of a remedy.
Dad had been drinking again.
I knew it because his words were slurred and his eyes were glassy, the way Mom’s shoulders hunched, her jaw set.
It was happening again, the same pattern as hundreds of times before, but this time something was different.
There was determination in her eyes I’d never seen before.
She waited until he fell asleep on the couch, his snore reverberating in the windows, then turned toward me, and whispered in a clear, strong voice.
“Pack a bag,” she said.
“We’re leaving.”
I looked at her, and my heart started pounding.
You want to leave?
But where would we go?
What would we do?
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