I grew up naive of all the hardships my mom went through. I didn’t even see it coming the day she was filing bankruptcy. Every night after school I would run off the bus, down the dusty street, and throw open the front door. Then I would kick off my dirty mountain boots onto the already stained wooden floor. Always I would hear my mother’s voice coming from the kitchen, warning me, “Jonny dear, I don’t want to see those muddy boots on my floor…” I remember like it was yesterday running into the house, but hearing nothing after I trooped in. I was scared, I tell you, even more so than being spanked on my behind by my mother. So I tiptoed nice and quietly to the kitchen, just like my dad did when we had a stray pit-bull on my bed. I interlaced all my fingers but my thumbs and fore-fingers, locked my arms in a face forward position, and when I turned the dining room corner I yelled “Hands up, nobody move!” But there was no dog in my house. All I saw was my mom sitting in her usual spot near the fireplace. One hand held up her head—the other held papers that meant squat to me. It was only after I came over to her that I noticed how puffy and red her eyes were. She must’ve been crying for some time—I felt bad for her, I really did, but I just didn’t understand her talk of how we aren’t going to have a real home for some time. She held up the papers like they meant something, and finally when I couldn’t take it anymore I beat my fists against her chest and screamed “I hate you, I want to see daddy!” She quietly replied, Daddy’s gone, love, but I promise I will always be here for you.

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