She always wanted her story told in some shape or form. The content was completely centered around her. About her. Glorifying her sacrifices.

 As I stood intently listening, I was probably six or seven then. That was my first memory of that being said but that is not the last time she uttered those words. Words ingrained so deep in my soul that it took years to unravel. We were her army of support. Three little children and me being the youngest. Burden was upon us to comfort her. To give her pride. To give her reason to live. The fault is dad primarily and the reason for cover up is always God. There were many times we circled around her as little children and hear her sob about how she wished she never had us. She regretted having us because she didn't want us to suffer. She would never admitted that she probably felt trapped. She always had a fascinated way to twist things around to make it sound ok. It always sounded so genuine.   I looked, I listened, and worst of all, I believed.

For years I wanted to write her book. I wanted her story told but I never imagined that this would be the story that I am telling and I am sure that this is not the story she would want me to tell.

Here is my side of  the story.