At three years old, I thought in my Daddy’s arms was the best place in the world. I took those moments as often as I could, savoring every second. I never knew when the next one would come along as they were rare with all the business trips‒a week here‒a week there with too few days in between. He brought back the best gifts, t-shirts, refrigerator magnets with my name on them, sunglasses, snow globes, music boxes and much more, from every place he traveled‒Hong Kong, Chicago, Hawaii, New York, Singapore, Japan ‒ the list is endless. Those little souvenirs meant the world to me; they were my life-line to him. They meant that he cared, that he thought of me; that I was still his little princess.

The marriage grew tense, as many do, but I suspect it did long before I became aware of it. All I can remember is the constant fighting and screaming, the throwing of furniture, and the beatings my mother endured. The person I treasured most in the world was doing these horrible things‒ my kingdom had come crashing down. Replacing shining knights in armor were police officers with badges and handcuffs who visited all too frequently. By then my brother had come along, mom cried a lot in those days and told me how sorry she was for my father’s behavior. She’d make excuses for him saying he was sick and he didn’t mean any of it. That was the phrase she always used, “He’s sick,” and I blindly accepted the phrase without really understanding it until much later. My father was—is—an alcoholic, among other worse problems. After my mother had endured his abuse for years, she finally had enough and divorced him. He lost everything‒his job, his family, his house. The divorce was finalized by the time I was 7.

My father only got worse, or so I’ve been told since I was not allowed to see him back then. He attempted to break into the house frequently. My mother, the teacher, fearing for our safety uprooted her family of three from Miami, Florida, and moved us 666 miles away to the itty-bitty town of Leesburg, Georgia. At this time I was eight and my brother was three; we left all we’d ever known. Leesburg wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. It was a culture shock. At first I was behind in school, which for a child with ADHD was tough; I had to work twice as hard, but within the next year I caught up and surpassed my peers. Before I knew it, I was listening to country music and wearing blue jeans, which I had never had much use for in Miami. My mother