Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows
Chapter 2

He said, "Rosie, I still love you. I just had too much to drink and messed up. Once I hit it big, I'll make sure we have a great life." With just a few sweet lies, he had my mom wrapped around his finger, and she handed over all her hard-earned money. This scene was all too familiar, and it chilled me to the bone.

I watched the cash in Dad's hand, and I suddenly wanted to ask Mom. Hadn't she promised that this month's paycheck would send me to preschool? I was five and had never been to preschool. But she was beaming at Dad, completely forgetting about me. So, I kept my mouth shut. It's okay, I thought. Mom will remember me next month.

But even when I finally started first grade, thanks to public school, she still hadn't remembered. Just like that, I missed out on preschool entirely. As I grew up, I learned there was a word for what Dad did: domestic violence. My teacher said I could call the police, and they'd protect me and Mom.

So one night, after Dad had passed out from another violent night, I held Mom's hand. I was filled with so much hope, that I forgot the pain. "Mom, let's call the police and get Dad arrested."

But instead of relief, Mom stared at me with shock and sadness. "Lana, he's your father! How can you say that?"

Her voice felt like a slap, leaving me red with shame, like I was the worst daughter ever. But it wasn't like that. The teacher said domestic violence is never okay, no matter who it is. So, I insisted on calling the police. For the first time, Mom hit me.

She broke a stick over me, making me kneel and think about what I did. I realized it hurt just as much when Mom hit me. For the first time, I saw Mom could hit too, just not Dad. I never cried from Dad's beatings, but that night, Mom's blow broke me down.

The next day, in a rare gesture, Mom boiled an egg to soothe my bruises. Usually, she saved eggs for Dad. I knew this was just like what Dad did to her. I didn't like this side of Mom; she felt like a stranger.

As a kid, I wished to grow up so I could protect her. But growing up turned out to be heartbreaking. It shattered my fantasies. The cycle of violence and forgiveness kept spinning. I grew numb, watching Mom sob one moment and then tiptoe around Dad the next.

I thought I couldn't feel more let down. But beneath disappointment lay despair. When I was eleven, Dad's beating left me with a fracture. Despite Mom's pleas, I was determined to call the police. She cried, knelt, and begged. She said if I called the police, she'd have no options left.

A mother knelt to her daughter. I was stuck, shamed by moral chains. There's no way forward, no way back.

Did she love me? I couldn't tell. Maybe she did, but her love for Dad drained her dry. What little was left for me felt like nothing.