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“Gross, you’re sweating on me!”

I sat on a park bench after school, a textbook in my lap and Ladybug snoozing at my feet. Inky words warped across the pages, my attention stolen by Reed and Tara sparring a few yards away on the blacktop. March had rolled in, bringing with it fifty-degree temperatures, morning rain showers, and midday afternoons drenched in sunshine.

I craved springtime more than most people. During the colder months, I’d have nowhere to escape to when Father was on a rampage, the sting of the winter air feeling just as cruel as he was.

A particularly haunting memory stood at the forefront of my mind.

I had painted a canvas for fifth-grade art class. A wintry backdrop with sparkling snowfall and white-capped mountaintops. It hadn’t been a masterpiece by any means, but I’d been proud. My mother had been staring blankly at the television screen, sipping on a glass of straight gin, the laugh track from the show sounding like a muddle of sniggering cruelty in the back of my mind.

“Want to see this painting I made?” I’d asked her, settling beside her on the rust-tattered sofa and blocking her view of the screen.

A slow blink was her only response.

“I got a good grade on it. The teacher loved it.”

She robotically moved my arm away. Said nothing.

Pain and insecurity had swelled in my chest. “Mom,” I’d tried, a threadbare demand. “Will you look at it?”

“Your father is home.”

My lungs had squeezed with fear when the tires of his truck had rolled over gravel. Then the door had barreled open. Father had stomped inside, his bristled face streaked in grease and oil from a long day at the mechanic shop.

I’d cowered, hoping to blend into the cushions, covering myself with the canvas.

“Dinner?” Father had swiped his hands down his grimy jeans, tracking dirt through the house as he’d trudged through the living room. His eyes had landed on me, narrowing with disgust. “I don’t smell food. What have you two been doing all day?”

I’d shrunk back when Father had ripped the gin glass from my mother’s hands. She’d hardly flinched, reaching for the half-empty bottle beside her and taking a long swig. Deadened eyes gazed at the flickering images on the television screen.

Popping up from the couch, I’d tried to make an escape to my bedroom but was stopped by a snake-like hand slithering around my elbow.

Bruising. Cruel.

“What do we have here?” Father had snatched my canvas, his dark eyes flitting across the colors and brushstrokes. “A toddler could have drawn this.”

“It was for school.” Effortlessly, he’d dodged my attempt to take it back. “Please.”

“Please?” A sneer had tipped his lips. “Please is right. Please, give me a fuckin’ kid who can hold a goddamn paint brush, instead of this pathetic little lamb. Please, send me something more than this braindead child who doesn’t know her place. You’ve been doodling all day when dinner should be on the table. The house is a goddamn mess. What’s wrong with you?”

Tears had fogged my eyes. “Nothing is wrong with me. I just got home from school.”

“Sing-a-longs on the playground, no doubt. Circle time and jump ropes with your little friends.” He’d hocked up a loogy and spit it on my painting, the image smearing with vile yellow saliva. “This is all you’ll ever be. Daydreams and wasted potential. Embarrassing.”

I’d stared catatonically at the ruined creation, the colors running away with my backbone. Mom had sat like a vacant lump on the couch, only a bark of laughter leaving her lips when a character on screen made a stupid joke. She’d blocked me out. Blocked everything out.

“That wasn’t easy to make.” My crestfallen eyes had returned to the picture. “I worked hard on it.”

Father had nearly choked on his laughter. “You never work hard. All you do is take up space and overcook my supper. Nothing hard about that.” With a nasty flick of my hair, he’d stormed past me, tossing my painting in the trash can.

Heart in torn-up shreds, I’d run from the house, landing at this very park that overlooked a lake, wishing I could dunk underneath the ice-clumped water and drown.

My skin prickled with memory as I stared out at the glimmering surface.

So calm. So peaceful.

Spring would become not only a season of renewal but also a true lifeline for me. The milder weather would provide me with the opportunity to venture outside, away from the abuse I’d sustain inside my own home. On the warmer days, I’d seek refuge at this same park, a place where the vibrant blooms replaced the drab hues of my daily life. Nature would allow me to breathe freely.

And as the temperature rose now, so did my determination to break free from the icy grip of my past.

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