Both Things Were True
A daughter's story of love and survival
My childhood was a paradox.
An illogical contradiction that made very little sense to a young girl.
From my earliest memory, I knew I was adopted.
I was told I was chosen.
That my parents weren’t really my parents, but that they had picked me.
But if I was chosen… then why did I feel so unloved?
On one hand, there was my mother.
She drowned her pain in alcohol and took her rage out on me whenever my dad wasn’t around.
She seemed to despise me.
That’s what I internalized.
I endured verbal, emotional, and physical abuse at her hands — always worse when she was drinking.
I know now it had nothing to do with me.
Her rage was against the world, for all of the things she had endured.
I was just an easy target.
A scapegoat for her pain.
On the other hand, I had a dad who tried his best.
He was kind.
Patient.
Present, when he could be.
He was the peacemaker.
The smoother-over.
The quiet protector.
Stuck in the middle and married to a woman who fell short in her promises to all of us, but especially to him.
When my dad was home, I was happy.
Things felt almost normal. Or as normal as they could be.
My mother became someone I had to tolerate — because he happened to be married to her.
I used to daydream about them getting divorced.
But in a strict Catholic household, divorce wasn’t an option.
Not even when everything in the house screamed for it.
Most days, she’d be drunk already when I got home from school.
I’d do my best to avoid her when she was like that.
But things always escalated quickly, especially when no one else was around.
It was best to fly under the radar.
To make myself small.
Invisible.
Until dad got home.
Hearing his car in the driveway meant I could finally exhale.
Dinner was a formality.
She’d eat in silence, then retreat upstairs and drink into the early hours.
Her days were nights.
Her nights were blurs.
Ever since I can remember, my parents were like ships in the night.
Always under the same roof but rarely in the same room.
Saturday mornings were my favorite.
I’ve always been an early riser.
I’d bound down the stairs with an eager smile on my face, knowing my dad was already up.
He was an early riser too.
This was our time. Just the two of us.
I didn’t have to share him.
She’d still be sleeping — passed out from the night before, lost in another gin-soaked haze.
My dad was my whole world.
I learned early on that he was the only safe adult in my life.
He helped me with homework.
Asked about my day.
Listened to my stories.
Even better, he told his stories.
Funny ones.
Interesting ones about his life.
Stories that made me feel like I belonged to someone.
He made life bearable.
She made it complicated.
Saturday nights were special too.
I felt lucky when he let me stay up to watch Saturday Night Live.
Dad in his chair, feet up on the ottoman.
Me on the floor, cross-legged in front of the TV.
The big green popcorn bowl between us.
I didn’t understand the jokes,
but I loved staying up late with him.
I loved being with him.
Sunday mornings were the worst.
They meant stiff dresses and forced smiles.
Pretending that everything was fine when everything was not fine.
I hated the lie we paraded into the pews.
The illusion of a perfect family.
We looked normal from the outside.
But inside, something was rotting.
No one could see the disease.
Or the quiet destruction inside our home.
Omg. I loved this. It was sad and I felt all of it for you. However, you write beautiful. Your gift is big! You are a Warrior my friend. A force. Don’t stop. —- I’m sorry for what you and through. My mom was an alcoholic but it wasn’t until I was 12-13 but later she was really bad. You’re amazing. 🙂↔️