Should I tell him? What if Uncle Bruno kills him? In school, the people came and said I should tell a grown-up if another grown-up hurt me. The people at school said not to be afraid, that if you tell, your parents will believe you and the police will protect you. Maybe what happened was bad and maybe it wasn’t my fault after all. As I debate whether to tell my father about Uncle Bruno and I’s private time together, dad is putting the cigarette order away behind the counter. The Store is open 24 hours now and mommy is on the night shift. I have time with daddy, so now would be the time to tell him. I gather up my courage, and I timidly approach my daddy and tug on the pocket of his jeans. Daddy turns to me and asks " what is it? " what do I need? I say that “ at school they said I should tell the truth, when I lived with Aunt Anna, Uncle Bruno was always naked and he used to touch me .” Now, I am the parent of two children, and I assure you if either of them said this t

Daddy got a letter at the post office a few weeks ago from maman, she’s coming to get us for 2 weeks this August 1982. I do not even really remember what she looks like in my mind’s eye. I have not seen maman is what seems like forever. I do not even have a photograph of her. The 2 weeks, waiting, were excruciating. I quickly learned to not act too excited or ask when August would arrive because neither of my current caregivers liked me using the name ‘maman’,   or maybe it was seeing the joy on my face they hated. Finally, Saturday had arrived and maman would be picking us up around lunch. Roxanne and I stayed close to home; I remember drawing pictures for her, kissing my cat Princess excessively, and steering clear of Tiger. I remember she had a maroon coloured K-car or another model Chrysler, later she had a tiny little dark blue car she called a pony. I did not care what happened to me after I got in that back seat. On the way out of town we stopped at a chip stand and in my ex

  I wake up in the morning, I notice ants, and spiders are crawling ON ME! I get up and I start to scream bloody murder. Dad comes running out of his bedroom to see what is wrong and finds me on the mattress, on the floor, having a meltdown over insects crawling on my body. To dad, this is hilarious and he is laughing so hard he almost pees his pants. Apparently, bugs are not a big deal and I should not worry. I definitely do not feel better and I really want him to cover the giant hole in the wall where the bugs are coming in. He said the hole would be covered before bed tonight. My new bedroom, which I share with my sister, used to be the laundry room* and the insects are coming in through the dryer vent. Noticing that my sister is missing, she is not in the bedroom when I was screaming bloody murder; we move around the small apartment and eventually make our way to the store. A regular interior door between our living quarters and the commercial business separates the spaces.