Reflections

We moved into my childhood home when I was just 18 months old. It’s wild to think about, but I actually have a memory from moving day—a quick flash, like a snapshot in my mind. I was sitting on my wooden rocking horse, back and forth, back and forth, right under the kitchen window where our table would always sit. I watched as my mom and dad carried things inside, my tiny world shifting around me.

There’s this thing called childhood amnesia, the idea that most people can’t remember anything from before they were about three or four. Supposedly, only about 15% of people have memories from that early. But I do. I remember that moment. I was wearing a little light-colored dress. I don’t remember the exact shade, just that it was soft and familiar. Oddly enough, I don’t recall my sisters being there, even though they would have been around 9 and 14 at the time.

We lived in that house until I graduated high school. I didn’t realize it then, but my parents stayed there so I could grow up with the same friends, the same school, the same sense of stability. And that’s something I’ve come to appreciate more than ever.

After high school, before I started college, we moved about 30 minutes north. A bigger place. Older. A house with more space for my dad to garden, which made him so happy. I adored that house. There was a walking path through the woods, a quiet little loop about a fourth of a mile long, and I’d try to walk a mile a day. It became my sanctuary. There was even a small bench nestled between two trees where I’d bring a book and just exist in the moment.

I lived there until 1996. Then life started shifting faster than I was used to. I met my ex, and we moved into an apartment.

I had grown up with stability. I wasn’t used to moving around. But suddenly, I found myself in a cycle I never thought I’d be in. I struggled to pay bills. We were evicted. Forced to move again and again. In five years, we lived in six different places. Twice, we had to move in with my mom because she couldn’t stand to see me struggle. Eventually, she suggested we find a place together—somewhere with an in-law suite so we could split the bills and have a sense of security.

That’s how we ended up in the house I’m in now. Almost 24 years. Crazy. It’s probably the only home my three youngest even remember. And at least, despite everything, they had that stability.

I’ve always been responsible. I worked hard. Got my first job in a pharmacy during college. They even tried to convince me to go to pharmacy school. I took the entrance exam, got accepted—but it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed at the pharmacy for three years, moved up to a service assistant (basically an assistant manager). Then I left, though I don’t even remember why. Maybe it was because I planned to move to Athens for school.

After that, I worked at a bank. I was there for almost four years, even while pregnant with my oldest. Later, when we moved to the apartment, I became an office manager at a yacht company. Stayed a year. Had a few other stable jobs before going back to college for my Master’s. That’s when I found writing. Built a career. Almost 18 years now.

Through all of it, I tried to provide my kids with stability. I always worked. Sometimes, I paid the bills alone.

He made our lives so hard.

From the moment we started dating, his job history was a whirlwind. An auto body shop. An equipment rental place. A boat broker. Manufacturing. Four different sign companies. Roofing. An electric company. Three car lots. A sporting goods store. An embroidery shop. A gym. A carpet cleaning business. A furniture store. A patio furniture company. A gun store.

Oh, and let’s not forget the time he tried to start his own sign business—only to quit before it even had a chance.

Out of all those jobs, he was fired from nearly every single one. Stole from four. 

As far as our relationship, he cheated seven times—three of those were full-blown relationships. The first five years, he drank heavily. And the kids? He was neglectful more times than I can count.

I sit with that sometimes. The guilt. The weight of knowing I stayed in a loveless relationship, hoping things would get better. Hoping I was doing the right thing.

He always gave me just enough love to keep me there. Just enough to make me believe.

I was surviving. And now, as a mother, I wonder if I should have done more.

But I can’t change the past. And looking back now, the picture is so much clearer. I wasn’t the problem. I never was.