The Homecoming
by Lynette Mejía
To be glad when one of your parents dies is an unusual circumstance to find oneself in. We are a select group, those who were so abused as children that the primal parent-child bond was somehow broken. It’s a strange feeling to know your tormentor is finally gone, an emotion somewhere between relief and the unexpected anxiety of never-before-felt freedom. It feels more like a dream than reality. I think the experience must be akin to being unexpectedly released from a life sentence in prison. Liberating, but disorienting,
When I was a child my mother was a drunk, and a mean one at that. My father left her when he could no longer stand her rages, and since she cleaned up well and had a convincing smile, the judge awarded her custody. It meant alimony and child support, enough to keep me fed and clothed (barely) and her in booze without having to get a job. As an added bonus, she still had an audience, and a ready victim with no chance of escape. They divorced when I was seven, and at least four days a week for the next nine years I lived in what amounted to a concentration camp.
The cruel irony was that when she was sober, she more or less acted normal. She’d cook, wash clothes, and ask me how my day was at school. This would go on for a day or two until something set her off. I never knew from one episode to the next what the trigger would be, until late at night when I was pulled from my bed by my hair and dragged across the kitchen floor. She’d scream and yell at me, reciting a list of my perceived crimes, kicking me until I begged, threw up, or passed out. It became a contest of wills to see how long it took before I pleaded for mercy. In the end, she always won.