Last Place
After I moved out I still called my mother every night for a brief talk but most of the time she wouldn't want to talk to me and didn't answer. I'm sure she was so sick that anything basic was painful and I had abandoned her and the remainder of my family so that also factored in, so instead I would call my father. He was always grateful to talk to me even though it was a sad call. When I think of the calls it reminds me of where they lived after the eviction at Northwest which was an upstairs apartment and the image that breaks my heart is my father saying "ready mommy?" as he would pick her up my mother and carry her 60 lb. body up the stairs because she was too weak. My father couldn't find work, my sister had her son and herself to care for, and even dying of cancer my mom still worked until the end trying to help her family find a home, something that shouldn't have been her sole purpose. I can't necessarily blame my father, because after 20 years of drinking alcohol even though he quit in the end his mind was already damaged. He would tell me "I was never there for you guys as a father." He felt shame and guilt for his actions of just drinking and not being involved in our daily lives, but what could he have done? His father made him drink beer before he was a teen and addiction runs in our families
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Searching for the Answer
Non-FictionThis is a compilation of stories involving childhood abuse and trauma through a first-person impactful perspective mostly chronological. It is my story and is not fabricated in any way. I am posting just to get feedback thank you.
