Page 22 of The Ballad of Us
And he’s right. I need to be grateful for not only my own breath, but Andrew’s too.
“That’s what Bruce said. It took him an hour to get me to see it. Andrew was protecting us both. Making sure Mom didn’t die for nothing.”
Three hours earlier
“Tell me about your mother, Gray.” Bruce sits across from me in his office, notepad balanced on his knee, expression patient and open.
We’ve been building toward this conversation all week, circling around the edges of my childhood trauma like vultures waiting for the right moment to descend.
“She was beautiful. Kind. She loved music. I think I got that from her.”
“Those are lovely memories.” He waits patiently for me to add more details to the conversation.
Of course, they are, but there’s always more to the story when it comes to addicts. We don’t just wake up one day and decide to destroy our lives with substances. There’s usually a wound at the center of it all that festers until poison is the only thing that brings relief.
“She married my stepfather when I was five. Richard. He seemed okay at first. He brought me and Andrew gifts, took us fishing, all the stuff you’d expect from a man trying to win over his new family. But he was an alcoholic, and when he drank, he got mean.” I lean back in the chair, surprised by how easily the words come.
Bruce nods, scribbling notes. “What kind of mean?”
“It was yelling at first, and that escalated to throwing things. Mom would send us to our rooms when he got like that. She’d tell us to play quietly until he calmed down. But it got worse. The yelling turned into pushing. The pushing turned into hitting and beatings.” I knew my childhood was fucked up for most of my life, but sharing so much intimate detail with a person other than Andrew is odd. Listening to myself say it out loud is surreal, like someone else is speaking about another life all together.
“Did he hit you and Andrew?” Bruce’s voice is gentle.
“Not until the few months leading up to my mom’s death. If we were too loud or if we got in his way when he was angry, he’d slap or knock us around. But mostly he focused on Mom. I think she was trying to protect us by drawing his attention to herself instead of us.” Those last several months living with Richard were hell. The words hang there, heavy with meaning I’m only just starting to understand.
“How long did this go on?” Bruce continues to scrawl across his notepad.
“Two years, maybe? It's hard to recall exact timelines at that young age. But I remember the night she died. It was a Saturday. Andrew and I watched cartoons while Mom made dinner. Richard came home already furious and as fucked up as a soup sandwich.”
Bruce leans forward slightly. “What happened next?”
“He started yelling at her about the house being messy, dinner not being ready, just really stupid shit that didn’t matter. She tried to calm him down, but he just got angrier.” I close my eyes, but the images are still there, burned into my memory with the clarity that only comes from witnessing the violent death of a parent. No child should ever see that shit. “He hit her. Not the first time, but… harder than before. She fell, and there was blood.”
“Where were you and Andrew during this?” He prods me to continue, forcing me to delve deeper into the night that changed everything.
“Andrew grabbed me and pulled me into his bedroom. He knew what was coming, having been older and more aware of the patterns. We hid in his closet, and he covered my ears with his hands. But I could still hear everything. Mom was crying, begging him to stop. The sound of his fists hitting her is still so clear. Then…” Tears start falling without my permission, hot tracks down my cheeks that I don’t bother to wipe away.
“Take your time.” Bruce encourages me to breathe and not feel rushed to wade through the trauma.
“He dragged her to the bathroom. I could hear the water running and her struggling against Richard. She was crying, saying our names, telling us she loved us. Then nothing. Just silence.” My voice breaks completely.
Bruce hands me a box of tissues, his expression gentle but unwavering. “That must have been terrifying.”
“We stayed in the closet for what felt like hours. Andrew kept whispering it would be okay until we finally heard the sirens. I was terrified Richard would find us and kill us both as well.”
“What happened to your stepfather?” He stops writing and focuses on my response.
“Life in prison. No parole. He’s still there, as far as I know. Andrew and I went into foster care. We were fortunate to have a good family who eventually adopted us, but the damage was already done.” I wipe my eyes, feeling hollow, but strangely relieved. “I’ve spent my entire adult life convinced that I was a coward. That I should have done something to save her. Seven years old, and I thought it was my fault she died.”
Bruce sets down his notepad and looks at me directly. “Gray, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You were a child. A seven-year-old boy cannot overpower a grown man. If you had tried to intervene, you would very likely have been killed too. Andrew saved your life by keeping you hidden.”
“But she was my mom—” I argue,
“And she loved you enough to draw Richard’s violence toward herself and away from you and Andrew. She protected you the only way she could, and Andrew continued that protection by keeping you safe in that closet. Your survival was not cowardice. It was the result of two people who loved you more than their own lives.” His voice is firm but compassionate.
The words hit me over the head, but instead of pain, I find a sense of relief. The weight I’ve carried begins to lift enough for me to fully breathe.
“Your mother’s death wasn’t your fault, Gray. Richard’s violence was not your fault. And the trauma you’ve been trying to numb with alcohol and drugs for years isn’t your fault either. But your healing? That is your responsibility.”
