“Wake up!”, she said. It was my Mother. It was 3AM and I was five years old. “Let’s go and don’t say anything!” Little did I know that the event taking place was my Mother literally escaping from my father’s grasp. Something that I wouldn’t find out until about 20 years later is that my Mother lived in a house with my father… and his wife.
My Mother met my father when she was around 16 years old I believe. He was in his 30s. They somehow formed a relationship that I presume started off well despite the legality of it. Oh, and the slight problem of him still being married to and living with his wife. To solve this issue, he moved my Mother in with them under the guise that she was his cousin. It didn’t take too long before the wife realized this wasn’t true. By then it was too late to turn back. You see, my Mother and his wife sort of formed a friendship. They had one thing in common, a sick abusive man in their life. I don’t remember much, however, the stories I read were chilling. My Mother would live in this house for almost 10 years.
So one night, we just left. My Mother had already found another apartment and we snuck out in the middle of the night, never to look back. I love my Mother so much for this. She risked everything so that me and her could have a better a life. Just me and her…
My father had visitation rights. Every time I had to see him he would ride me on his bicycle and try to trick me into showing him where we lived. He would say things like “I wanna play Nintendo with you, just show me where you live” and “I wanna give a gift to mommy.” Sick man indeed. I never could point out where we lived. I was a child with a horrible sense of direction… I still have a bad sense of direction to this day.
April 16, 1993
This morning started off unlike any other morning. Mother was getting me ready for school as I watched the Beetlejuice cartoon show. In actuality I was supposed to be finishing up homework that should have been done the night prior. When she found me watching TV she wasn’t very pleased to say the least. We finally left the house and she dropped me off to school.
This part of the story is a blur to me. I was at school but I don’t have any recollection of that that part of the day. Instead, I will fill in the story from the prospective of my Mother. The story that I was told.
My Mother dropped me off like she did any normal morning. Only this time, something was different. My father spotted her car and followed her, making sure to stay just out of sight so she would not see. She made it all the way back home without noticing she was followed. When she parked and went to open the apartment door, my father ran behind her and forced her inside.
I can only presume that he pleaded with her for a bit to come back to him. This is clear by her ability to make a 911 call and actually speak to the dispatcher as he watched. The line went dead before she could finish saying her address though. He had hung up the phone.
My Mother knew something like this might happen one day so she had a gun in the house. But he had a gun with him also. She frantically dashed around her apartment to get to the spot where she hid her gun and amazingly managed to reach it. But in her panic, she dropped all the bullets to the ground. As she knelt to gather the bullets my father opened fire. He fired several times, one of the bullets actually going through her hand as she held it up to somehow shield herself. Then, he ran.
Lost Little Boy
I remember being taken out of school early that day by my Grandmother and Uncle. I admit being very happy that I got to go home. No one had told me what happened. We went back to my Mother’s house. There were police cars and cameras everywhere. I waved to them and smiled. I still did not know.
We got back to my Grandmother’s house and things became very eerie. I began to ask where my Mother was. My Grandmother, visibly disturbed, finally told me in the simplest terms she could. My first question was “When will she be back?” She said, “She won’t be back…”I immediately burst into tears. From that point on, I would cry every night for a very long time.