The AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE UNWANTED KID

My name is Kelly. Some people know me as a violent felon. Some know me as a mother. Some only know the version of me they decided to believe. But none of them know the little girl I used to be. I am not writing this book to explain my mistakes. I am writing this because I survived things that were never supposed to be survived. I walked through fire as a child and somehow learned how to keep walking as an adult. If you have ever felt unwanted… invisible… or blamed for pain you did not create — this story is for you. My parents divorced before I was old enough to understand what the word meant. By the time I was two, my life had already been packed into someone else’s plans. I grew up mostly in my grandparents’ home — the only place that ever felt safe. When I was seven, my mom brought a man over for us to meet. My cousin and I thought it would be funny to dance and act silly for him. We didn’t know that sometimes the people who smile at children are the same ones who later teach them fear. At first, things seemed normal. Then slowly… quietly… everything changed. This is where my story really begins. After a while my mom and him started getting close. They moved into a small duplex down the road from my grandparents’ house. At first, nothing felt wrong. He laughed at our jokes. He sat at the kitchen table like he belonged there. Then one night I woke up and saw him standing in my room. He was trying to slide money under my pillow like the tooth fairy. I remember staring at the ceiling afterwards, wondering if I had dreamed the whole thing. I remember him taking me to the mall and me telling strangers he was my boyfriend. Grinning ear to ear. I would always want to hold his hand. I loved having a father figure around. That was only the beginning, and that version of him didnt last. When my mom wasn’t around, his voice changed. So did his hands. Sometimes he would pick me up and set me on top of the refrigerator as punishment. He knew I was terrified of heights. I would sit there frozen, afraid to cry because crying only made him stay longer. When my mom found out she was pregnant with my little brother, everything in our lives started moving again. We left the duplex and moved farther away — away from the only people I trusted. The new house was big. It had a yard, a trampoline, even a swimming pool that didn’t last long. For a little while, I thought maybe this meant life was getting better. It wasn’t. He only hurt me when my mom wasn’t home. Like the night at Burger King when she went inside the store and I begged to go with her. I remember screaming and crying as he pulled me toward the truck. I remember the feeling of his hand in my hair. The sound of my head hitting the window. I remember thinking no one could hear me. And then things got worse. He worked third shift. In the summer I could hear him come home before the sun was up. The house would still be dark, quiet in that way that makes your stomach feel tight. Sometimes he would walk down the steps without any clothes on. He would stand there and ask me why I wouldn’t look at him. “I know you like boys now… why not me?” I didn’t understand what he meant. I only knew that I felt sick and wanted to disappear. There were times he would walk out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. At first I told myself it was normal. Adults were strange sometimes. That’s what I thought. One afternoon after school I was standing at the stove cooking hamburger meat. He started yelling at me about something I don’t even remember. Then his towel fell. He didn’t move to pick it up. He just stood there with his hands on his hips like he was waiting for me to react. That’s when I knew it wasn’t an accident. I told my mom. He told her I was lying. For a while things were quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think maybe you imagined everything. Then one night he fell down the stairs and told my mom I pushed him. I remember thinking, What grown man blames a fourth grader? The only reason she didn’t believe him was because my cousin stayed the night and saw him try to slam my fingers in the kitchen drawer and watched him lose his balance. She was standing right next to me. After that the anger got worse. Sometimes he would grab me by my hair and pin me in the corner near the kitchen table. Sometimes he would lift me by my throat just enough to scare me. One day I finally ran. I grabbed the phone and locked myself in my bedroom, trying to call for help. He caught me before I could say anything. After that he told me if I ever called the police I would be in trouble too. My aunt lived in the same gated community as we did. I would go to her house all the time. She never will understand the gratitude I have for her. She would take me for the weekend and that weekend was me and me only. She and my uncle showed me so much love. I forgot about all my fears, and troubles when I would to your house. I remember calling and asking if I could stay the night and my mom said no. I remember screaming and crying to the point I made my self-get sick all over the floor. I didnt want to be there alone with him. I never told my aunt or my mom. I just kept it all in. The week he left to visit his parents was the best week of my childhood. The house finally felt like I could breathe. But he always came back. One time he left the state to visit his parents. He was gone for about a week. That week was the best week of my childhood. The house felt lighter. I could breathe. I could move without waiting for footsteps. Until the phone rang. He had tried calling my mom and she didn’t answer. When he found out I had used the phone to call her, he told me I was never allowed to touch his phone again. Even though she was the one who called me. Looking back, I think he was afraid of what I might say. A couple months later I went with him to his parents’ house. Just him, my baby brother, and me. I remember thinking it might be fun. They had a basement set up like a little classroom. There was a desk. Chalk. Paper. For a little while I felt safe enough to pretend I was just a kid. Then I heard his voice upstairs. The next thing I remember clearly is him grabbing me and dragging me down the steps. He was yelling so close to my face that I could feel his spit hitting my skin. Even now, I can still feel that. He had me cornered. I knew he was about to hurt me and no one would see. By the grace of God, one of his parents came in and stopped him. His father wasn’t always kind to me either. I remember being screamed at for using too many bubbles in the bath. Small things always seemed to make adults furious. But the real fear was still waiting back home. And soon we would go back. My dad didn’t come around much. I remember sitting on the front steps waiting for him. My mom would say he was coming to get me. I would sit there with my shoes on, watching every car that turned down our street. Most of the time, he never showed up. After a while she stopped telling me when he said he was coming. I would only start packing if I saw his car pull into the driveway. Even when I did get to go with him, the weekends were usually short. He got into bar fights. Sometimes he ended up in jail. Sometimes I just got sent back home. The one night I remember staying with him is still one of the scariest nights of my life. I was sleeping on the couch because I didn’t have a bedroom at his house. I woke up to yelling. I saw him and my stepmom arguing. Then I saw the gun. At the time I thought it was real. Later I was told it was a BB gun. But to a child, that didn’t make it less terrifying. He was talking about going outside and shooting himself. For a moment everything went quiet. I remember opening my eyes just enough to see him on top of her, choking her. There was blood coming from her mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to look. I just wanted it to stop. There were other times he didn’t show up when he promised he would. Once I called my grandma hoping she would help. She acted like she didn’t even have a granddaughter. I later realized she might have been drinking. But when you are that young, you don’t understand reasons. You only feel the hurt. I cried to my mom about it for days. And then life moved on. But the fear didn't.