When The Hurt Comes from Inside the House

Familial betrayal is the deepest cut

When he first came into my life, I was suspicious. Who was this man with the Irish brogue and gameshow smile fixing me boxed macaroni and cheese? Who was this man who claimed he was my pal, my friend — let’s ride in the Jeep with the windows rolled down and James Taylor blaring and how about we stop for cheese fries?

Spoiler alert: we always stopped for cheese fries.

Who was this man who crawled into the recesses of my cold, dead heart and lit fires everywhere? Even at twelve years old, I was cloaked in my armor, carrying my artillery, trusting no one. Especially men. Over time, though, he became the exception. He became the one man I could always lean on, trust. I laughed when he broke out into Elvis-like hip contortions in the food court because Sugar Ray’s “Someday” blared over the loudspeakers. I allowed myself to sleep while he drove.

I allowed myself to feel something other than hurt when we spent Thanksgiving at 7-Eleven that one year when my mother hurled plates of fried meat against the wall. Was it pride I felt when he stood in the crowd clapping like mad during my high school and college graduations? Him in his ill-fitted suit and police radio he always carried because he wanted to know things. Or perhaps it was a feeling…