Eleven is when the emotional, mental, and sometimes physical abuse started. I stopped trusting the very ones who were supposed to protect me. I heard yelling and screaming and went to see what was the matter. He had my brother up by the collar of his shirt, pressed against the wall with one arm, and the other had his hand in his face, pointing and screaming. Whilst you stood there, watching.
I tried to break them up. But I got pushed to the side. I tried once more and that’s where it all changed. He took his free hand and shoved me, yelling, get the fuck out of here, and pushed me down the stairs. I landed on the foyer, missing most of the stairs. Whilst you stood there watching, I picked my own self up, crying, hurt.
In the coming days, you validated what he did. You excused the physical and emotional pain he caused your daughter. You tried to tell me it never happened, or that my brother did it. And sadly, after a while, I started to believe you. I believed you because you were my mother.