Rise and walk

Chapter One: The Crash

The year was 1987, a warm day in Seagoville, Texas. I was only three years old, standing barefoot in the backseat of my babysitters car,back when no one thought twice about a child not wearing a seatbelt. I had a hot dog clutched in my little hands, ketchup and mustard smeared across my face, living in pure toddler bliss.

In the front seat, my babysitter and my five-year-old sister Jennifer sang their hearts out to 80s music blaring from the radio. The volume of the music matched the joy of the moment, but it stole most of my babysitters attention from the road ahead.

Then came the bang!

I can still hear it the violent sound of metal colliding, the world jerking forward in an instant. I remember the strange weightless feeling as my body lifted, flying through the windshield, then crashing into the rear glass of the stalled vehicle in front of us. The world slowed down, shards of glass spinning around me like glitter in a snow globe, almost beautiful if it hadnt been born out of chaos.

There was screaming. Blood. My babysitter, my sister, everything became noise and panic. Strangers rushed toward us. I remember being lifted, small hands pulling broken glass from my skin, voices trying to comfort me. Someone carried me inside their home, placed me in a shower, and let the warm water run over me to wash away the blood. Their kindness in that moment is something I’ve never forgotten.

I don’t remember the ambulance ride nor the hospital room. What I do remember is waking up to the brightness of daylight streaming down a long white-tiled hallway at Parkland Hospital. The floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights. At the end of that hallway, I saw my mother. She held my hand tightly as we walked out of the hospital doors together.

That day marked me, in more ways than one. I carry a small X-shaped scar above my left eyebrow, a permanent reminder of the moment my childhood innocence was shattered along with that windshield.

Not long after, my life changed again. My mother left for Florida with Jennifer and her new boyfriend, Jeff, a truck driver who would soon become her husband. I wasn’t invited to go. Instead, I was left in the care of my grandmother.

My grandmother was a cruel woman. She could tear you down with words sharper than any shard of glass, and she didn’t care whether you were three or thirty. With moles on the tip of her nose and wiry curls like steel wool piled on her head, she always reminded me of a witch from the storybooks.

It didn’t take her long to decide she didn’t want me either. She picked up the phone, called my father, and told him to come get me.

And just like that, it was Jack and me.

Jack always had Harleys and El Caminos. To me, they were symbols of freedom. I’d ride on the back of his motorcycle, small hands gripping his jacket, the wind stinging my face as the rumble of the engine drowned out the world.

Those were golden days. Just Dad and me.

We lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Irving, Texas. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. Jack filled my life with simple joys with trips to the park, playing catch, flying kites. He gave me bubble baths so big the foam nearly spilled out of the tub. For the first time in my young life, I was happy.

Jack worked long hours, though, so he tied a house key to a string around my neck. I walked to school a few blocks away, then let myself in when I got home. One of my little rituals was climbing onto the counter, then up to the top of the fridge, pulling down a loaf of bread. I’d roll each slice into little balls and eat the entire thing. Jack would walk in later, eyes wide with shock at the empty wrapper.

Life felt perfect, at least for a while. Then Jack met Laura.

I was five when she entered my world. At first, she was just our neighbor, living in the same apartment complex with her husband and their daughter, Brandy. She was thin, with wavy brown hair always tied back in a ponytail. She became my babysitter, which seemed innocent enough. But when she and her husband moved out, Jack followed. Looking back, I can see the truth: the affair had already begun.

Laura soon got pregnant. She left her husband, and Jack took her in. Their child, Elian, was born, and just like that, Laura had two daughters under our roof now Brandy and Elian. That was the moment my role in the family shifted.

I became the outsider.

If I was hungry, I had to bribe one of the girls to ask for food for me, because Laura would scream or hit me if I asked. My room was nothing but a mattress on the floor, bare walls closing in around me. Night after night, I cried alone in the dark, whispering prayers to God, begging for my mom to come and rescue me. She never did.

All I wanted was the love and joy Laura poured into Brandy and Elian. Instead, I got the belt, the slap, the venom in her words. Abuse became my normal.

One day, when I was eight, Brandy and Elian locked themselves in the trunk of a car outside. I ran to help Laura get them out, but instead of thanking me, she slapped me hard across the face.

This time, Jack saw.

He exploded, furious at what he had witnessed. I thought that was it. My nightmare was over. We jumped in his car and drove off. I remember smiling through tears, telling him how happy I was that it was just him and me again.

But the relief was short-lived. Within the hour, he drove back.

Jack never saw what I endured. He was always at work, always away, blind to the cruelty that consumed me when he wasn’t there. That slap should have opened his eyes, but it didn’t. My hopes crumbled.

The abuse continued, and I shrank further into myself. I grew quiet. Timid. Scared of my own shadow. And kids at school noticed.

They picked at my weakness like vultures. They called me names like gay boy, hunchback, and much worse. They shoved me down, tore up my papers, laughed when I stayed silent. With no confidence and no backbone, I became their favorite target.

Laura had beaten the fight out of me long before the schoolyard bullies ever had the chance.

Chapter 2: News No Child Should Hear

I was in the fifth grade, sitting at my desk only a few hours into the school day when there was a knock at the door. The principal stepped in, apologized for interrupting, and asked for me by my name“Kevin Smith.”

The room went silent. My stomach dropped.

When the principal came to personally get a student, it was serious. My mind raced, what had I done? A hundred possibilities flashed through my head, each one worse than the last. I could already feel the sting of what the punishment would be when I got home.

The walk to her office stretched on like an eternity. My fists were clenched, my heart pounding. I thought I might throw up before I even reached her desk.

But when I walked in, I froze.

Laura was sitting there, crying.

I was confused. Terrified. Why was she at my school? Why was she crying in the principals office? I sat down next to her, still waiting for the hammer to fall.

The principals face was heavy, somber. She and Laura looked at me, and Laura finally spoke.

There is something we need to tell you.

Her voice shook.

She explained that an accident had happened at home. My little sister, Elian just who was just three years old, had been playing in the back seat of a car with a cigarette lighter. Somehow she had unscrewed the lighter and spilled fluid across the seat. When she sparked it, the whole front seat burst into flames.

She scrambled into the back seat, but she couldn’t get out. Smoke filled the car, and she never made it.

The words crushed me. My heart shattered instantly. I collapsed onto the floor of the principals office, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.

That moment pushed me further into the darkness I had already been living in. The depression, the loneliness, the prayers for rescue that never came all of it grew heavier.

My grandmother Snow Jacks mom called my mother and told her about the funeral.

The day of the service was strangely beautiful, the kind of warm, sunny day that didn’t match the grief in the air. A few small clouds drifted across the sky as I sat beside my dad.

Thats when I saw her.

A blonde woman in a black dress, wearing a fedora-style hat, standing across the way. I tugged at Jacks sleeve.

“Is that my mom?”

Jack smirked and nodded. “Yep, son. Thats your mom.”

It had been more than nine years since Id seen her. The only image I had of her was from old photographs in Jacks albums. My sadness melted into joy in an instant. Without hesitation, I bolted toward her, smiling bigger than I ever had in my life. I wrapped my arms around her and held on tight, not wanting to let go.

After the funeral, she told Jack she wanted me to spend a few weeks with her. Given everything that had just happened, he agreed.

We walked to her car, and I noticed a thin man with scruffy hair sitting in the drivers seat. My mom introduced him as David, her boyfriend. In the back seat sat a little boy with bright blonde hair cut straight around his head like someone had placed a bowl over it.

“This is your little brother, Jeffery” my mom said.

I climbed in the back and sat beside him. We talked, played, and laughed as the car carried us away from Eastland, Texas, toward Denison — toward a life I hadn't yet imagined.

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Chapter 3: Answered Prayers May Be More Lessons

What was supposed to be a few weeks in Denison, Texas with my mom turned into months. I hadn't seen her in nine years, so I didnt complain about the extra time. When Jack made the long drive to pick me up, I broke his heart and told him I wanted to stay with my mom. Just the thought of going back to Laura's house filled me with dread. I couldn’t face that again. What I didn’t realize was that my troubles were only about to change shape.

At first, David my moms boyfriend seemed like a decent guy. But once the shine wore off, his true colors bled through. He built his own weapons to punish us with. A wooden paddle with holes drilled into it that he called speed holes so it could swing faster. Electrical tape wrapped tightly around the handle for better grip. Then came his (masterpiece) an electrical cord, folded in half, bound tight with black tape. I can still see his grin as he wrapped it, the look in his eyes that made my stomach twist in knots.

We stayed with David for close to a year in a run-down Denison apartment. Then one morning while he was at work, my mother packed the house in a rush, checked us out of school, and whisked us away. She had fallen for a coworker from the nursing home, a man named Mike, and leaving David behind was her escape.

Mike lived in Kansas, in a leaning, lopsided shack of a one-bedroom house that looked like it should have been condemned. That's where we landed. After a few months, we moved into something slightly better, and I started sixth grade in Topeka, Kansas.

Mike wasn’t a bad man. He worked long hours and never took out his frustrations on us. That alone made life easier. Still, we were poor. Toys were cutouts from magazines. Cars and people clipped from glossy pages became our playthings. Christmases were bare. We didn’t expect presents, just warmth, food, and a roof.

But that year, when I had finally accepted that Christmas was going to be a disappointment as normal, there was a knock at the door. A group of people from a nearby church stood outside, singing carols. They carried in boxes of gifts. Excitement and embarrassment clashed inside me. Excitement at all the gifts, shame because some of the kids from school were there, seeing how little we had. I had worked so hard to hide our poverty, hiding my free lunch card in the cafeteria line, searching Goodwill racks for clothes that didn't look too worn, collecting cans with my brother for spare change to buy snacks at the gas station. That night, though, we didn’t have to hide. The gifts made it a Christmas to never forget.

Life in Kansas carried on until 1995, when the O.J. Simpson trial was everywhere. We were sprawled across the living room floor watching the TV when a thunderous knock shook the front door. Six police officers rushed inside, straight to my moms bedroom. Shed worked the late shift and was still asleep when they pulled her out of bed, handcuffed her on the floor, and took her away.

She had violated probation by leaving Texas.

A few days later, Jennifer and I were put on a Greyhound bus to Dallas. Alone. Just the two of us. My little brother Jeff stayed behind with Mike because Mom had refused to give him back to his father.

The bus ride was long, frightening, but we survived it together. When we pulled into Dallas, Jack was waiting at the station. He drove us to his new home in Milford, Texas an old trailer planted on a street lined with brick houses and two massive grain silos looming across the way. Milford was a tiny town with just one main street. The middle and high schools shared the same building.

I was glad to be back with my dad. But when we arrived, reality hit me. Laura was still there.

At first, she seemed different. Calmer. She and Jack were going to church every Wednesday and Sunday, sometimes even to revivals at peoples homes. For the first time, I was introduced to the Pentecostal church.. with hands lifted, people jumping, speaking in tongues. As a kid, I didn't know what to think. Part of me was curious; part of me was terrified.

Jennifer, by then a teenager, was spiraling sneaking out, getting in fights, pushing against Jacks rules. So when my mom got out of jail, she came and took Jennifer with her.

And just like that, I was left alone with Jack. And Laura

Chapter 4: guess who this is?

It was six months to a year later, one night when I stayed home from church. I honestly don’t know why just coincidence, maybe. I heard a car pull up outside and looked out to see who it was. It was dark, but as the figure passed in front of the headlights and into the glow of the porch light, I froze.

It was my mom.

I bolted out of the house and straight into her arms. After the excitement settled, she asked if I wanted to spend the weekend with her. I said yes, of course but I had to let Dad know first. He was at church.

Get in, she said. I’ll take you there.

I climbed into the backseat of a little red car, my heart racing with excitement. My little brother was already sitting there, grinning ear to ear, just as happy to see me. A man with long wavy brown hair under a hat sat in the drivers seat. I didnt know him.

The church wasn’t far, and as soon as we pulled up, I ran inside in my nightclothes. Laura was the first to see me her face twisted with anger as she scolded me to sit down. I obeyed at first, fear of her punishment holding me in place. But after a moment, I gathered the courage to ask my dad if I could go.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he said it was okay. I think he knew I wasn’t coming back.

I sprinted out of the church, jumped into the car, and shouted, He said yes! Let’s go!

We drove off into the night. A few minutes later, my mom turned and asked, “Do you know the man driving?”

I glanced at him. Then at her. Then back at him.

The mans eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.

With a crackle in my voice, I whispered, “My dad??”

That was the night I learned my life had been a lie. For almost twelve years, I’d grown up believing Jack was my father. I never understood why I didn’t look like him or share his dark complexion. But the man behind the wheel he could have been my reflection.

Questions swirled inside me. Why now? Why did it take so long to tell me? Do I still call Jack Dad? Do I call this man Dad?

My mom began to explain. She told me how she and Larry Scott had grown up together and been in love & while she was married to Jack, she had met up with Larry again. They had a fling. And here I was.

We arrived in Red Oak, Texas, late that night. My real dad, Larry, lived in a large A-frame house he had built himself. It looked a lot like the old Whataburger restaurants a big and sharp-triangle house, with the shape that stood out against the night.

Larry built classic cars and had them scattered around the yard like fallen soldiers. He was stern, no-nonsense, and meant business but he never raised a hand to us. For a while, I enjoyed living in Red Oak, starting seventh grade there, feeling like life was finally steady.

But it didn’t last. My mom wanted out, larry was cheating on her and out all night constantly.

One day she emptied Larrys house, checked us out of school, and with the help of my aunt, packed two trailers full of everything. We drove off to Durant, Oklahoma.

We stayed at my Aunt Lisa's place, Living with my aunt in Oklahoma was another kind of hardship. The house was falling apart, the kind of place where every step creaked and the paint flaked like dry skin. We called it the White House because of the large pillars on the porch, but it was a poor imitation of anything grand. Life inside, though, was even harder than the structure itself.

Every day, I was warned to keep an eye out for my dad, as if he were some kind of monster. My grandmother made me feel like he was the enemy. I stayed paranoid, too scared to play outside near the main road.

School offered little escape. I was new in a strange town, trying to adjust to unfamiliar teachers and classmates while carrying the weight of everything that had happened to me. I longed for stability, for a sense of home, but it felt like life was always moving the goalposts

Eventually my real dad Larry, tracked us down. Along with the police, he filed charges against my mom. The news didn’t bring relief it just reinforced that no matter where I went, the adults in my life seemed incapable of providing safety or consistency. My siblings and I were stuck in a revolving door of adult failures, left to fend for ourselves in a house that was slowly crumbling around us.

Chapter 5: Broken and Surviving

A few months after my mom was taken to prison, I went to a friend's house to borrow a video game. I crossed a busy street, not thinking twice, and made it to the other side. Then everything went black.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed. My arm was hooked up to an IV, my body wrapped in bandages, and pain consumed me. I had been hit by a woman who had been drinking and driving in broad daylight. I had flipped over her car, and three vehicles behind had run me over. Half my face was gone. I had been in a coma for days.

When I awoke, I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. The hospital room was cold and sterile, filled with the constant beeping and buzzing of machines. Alone, I forced myself to stand, using the IV pole to help me reach the restroom.

I flipped on the light and froze.

The mirror reflected a stranger. My eyes filled with tears as I stared at the swollen, battered face staring back. Blackened lips, blood seeping through layers of gauze. “This cant be me! Whats happening?” I whispered to myself. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

I returned to my bed, still crying, until a nurse came in and offered some comfort.

The only silver lining I could cling to was the certainty of food I would eat three meals a day. That small assurance became my lifeline.

I recovered over the next month, leaving the hospital with scars and scabs, reminders of how fragile life could be. I was alive and that was everything.

Not long after, my aunt Lisa sent us to live with my grandmother, just down the street. Her house was a two-bedroom shack, and life there showed me firsthand what my mother had endured growing up. Cabinets were locked, and often we were locked out entirely. Potted meat sandwiches and grits became the staple of our existence breakfast, lunch, and dinner on weekends.

School lunches were more than a meal they were survival. We didnt have a washing machine, so clothes were washed in the bathtub, wrung out by hand, and hung all over the house. In winter, there was no heater. My grandmother would turn on the oven, open the door, and we would bundle ourselves in every blanket and coat we could find just to stay warm.

It was harsh, unforgiving, and lonely but it was home, for now.

Chapter 6: Moving, Chaos, and Survival

Eventually, my mother was released from prison and came to get us. We moved around a few times in a short span before finally settling into a very old, abandoned house built on what we later learned was an Indian burial ground. The house had been left to rot for decades. Walls were missing, one of the main bedrooms was just the wooden 2x4 framework, and there was no central AC or heater. Worst of all, there was no bathtub.

We made do with a horse trough. Water was boiled on the stove and poured into a horse trough so me and my 2 siblings and all six of my cousin could bathe. Being first in line was a coveted position because being the last you were pretty much bathing in filth. When it rained, we would stand outside in our whitey-tighties and let the water run over us, laughing like wild kids in the middle of nowhere. And by the middle of nowhere, I mean truly remote 45 minutes to an hour to the nearest store.

Occasionally, descendants of the Indian tribe would visit the property, tending to a cemetery at the far end where long trenches held the remains of soldiers and tribe members massacred generations before. We learned the large humps in the terrain marked these mass graves. In front of our house, hidden among weeds, we found part of a tree riddled with copper bullet casings. It was chilling, heartbreaking reminder of what had happened there.

The day we finally left that house was a breath of fresh air. We loaded up a U-Haul and drove to Tyler, Texas, where my mom found a home she was leasing to buy. The house had once been a library, then a palm readers studio, and finally converted into a home. Rumors soon surfaced that it was haunted. The doors and cabinets opening on their own, objects mysteriously thrown across rooms.

Before we moved in, Mom met a man named Tracy. He was about ten years younger than her, with long curly brown hair, and he drove a small Nissan truck. Tracy became one of Moms best boyfriends in our eyes. He didn’t abuse us, either mentally or physically. Instead, he played video games with us, taught us hunting, and gave us a rare sense of normalcy. To Mom, however, he was too young-minded, and eventually, she packed up again.

We moved several more times before settling in a trailer in Ben Wheeler, Texas completely in the middle of nowhere. There was no running water. My brother and I would take empty buckets, climb over a rusted barbed-wire fence, and walk down a long hill about an eighth of a mile it felt to me & scoop water from a cow pond. We would then carry it back home, boil it, and make tea so the water looked clean enough to use. Electricity came eventually, but until then, we relied on candles. A single mom raising three kids while trying also trying to take care of her mother money didn’t have much wiggle room.

Mom began dating again this time a man named Kevin. From the beginning, I could tell he wasn’t a good guy. But if Mom was happy, what could a twelve-year-old do? It didn’t take long before things went south. Kevin and my sister got into a fight, and he put a knife to her throat. The police were called, and he went to prison.

With three families living in a three-bedroom trailer, tensions ran high. My older cousin Jamie and I moved into the barn out back just to carve out some space for ourselves. Eventually, we moved again, this time into a tiny metal trailer in a trailer park. Mom, my siblings, my grandma, and I squeezed into the tuna can, making the best of it.

After a few months, we returned to Tyler and stayed with Kevin’s parents. Surprisingly, this was one of the better periods of my childhood not because of them, but because of the other kids. We could finally be kids, running around, free from constant chao until Kevin was sent to a halfway house. Mom had just purchased a 1988 square-body Chevy truck that she had fixed and painted white, and life moved on as best it could

Chapter 7: On the Run

It wasn’t long before Kevin ran away from the halfway house. He couldn’t wait a year to be free, so he and Mom convinced his parents to switch vehicles to avoid the police, who would likely be looking for them. They traded her newly painted Chevy for a small black nissan extended cab, decked out with a very 90s green design along the side.

Late that evening, Kevin and Mom drove us to Houston to what we can call the hideout house. We stayed with Kevins relatives while they helped Mom find a home for us. The place they settled on was hidden, abandoned, and surrounded by three or four other long-forgotten houses, overrun with weeds and trees. Ours was at the far end of the street. It was dilapidated: no back door, a kitchen roof missing more than half its panels, and an overall sense of decay.

We held up there as long as we could, but Moms fear of Kevin grew. At times, she was terrified of him, and I could see the paranoia in her eyes. Finally, she hatched a plan. She told Kevin she was going to the gas station for water & cigarettes and she took me along with her. While at the station, Mom quickly used a payphone to call Crime Stoppers. When we got back to the car, she was shaking, terrified of what she had just done. I wished she hadn’t told me because knowing it put both of us in danger if Kevin ever found out. I had to keep a straight face like my life depended on it because it honestly did.

Back at the hideout, I sat on the couch next to my little brother, watching Cops on the television, trying to appear calm. Kevin asked if everything had gone okay. Mom stayed quiet, her nerves barely contained. Then the chaos hit.

The cops burst through the door. Guns drawn. Lights flashing. Kevin was slammed to the ground, surrounded by 10-15 officers shouting orders. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Relief washed over me our time with him was finally over but the scale of the police presence made it impossible to forget the danger we had been in the whole time.

That morning, we headed back to Tyler, hoping to retrieve Moms 1988 Chevy from Kevins parents. They refused, keeping both vehicles, leaving us without transportation and stuck. Mom eventually called her mother, and we went to stay with Grandma and her husband Glenn. It was a calmer, quieter times relative to everything that had happened but the memories of Kevins reign and the police raid lingered like shadows.

We stayed with Grandma for six months to a year before moving again this time to Greenville, Texas.

Chapter 8: The Calm Before the Storm

Mom found a new man named Robert. He had long, blonde curly hair, almost like a mullet. He lived in a nice brick neighborhood in a beautiful home with a pool and jacuzzi. For the first time, I felt like I had hit the big time! no more worrying about tomorrow. Robert worked for a government company that built military airplanes, and he made a good living.

At Roberts, life finally felt stable. I had my first girlfriend, Amanda, and for a brief moment, it seemed like things were falling into place. But I was wrong. One day, I came home from school to discover the house already packed up. Robert had a secret life: he enjoyed dressing as a woman, had a hanging fetish, and recorded videos of himself in bondage. Looking back, there were signs like him mowing the yard in cut-off Daisy Duke shorts..at the time, they made no sense. Leaving that perfect home was heartbreaking.

Mom soon found another boyfriend Wes. He started out seeming decent, but drugs quickly crept into the picture. From Greenville, Texas, we moved to Balch Springs to stay with my aunt in her cramped two-bedroom apartment with her three kids. Soon after, Mom and Wes found a tiny abandoned house off Beltline Road in Seagoville, Texas.

In the summer of 1997, we moved into the small, old house. The paint was peeling and flaking, and across the field sat another completely collapsed home. Ours was dilapidated: half the kitchen roof was missing, there was no heat in the winter, and only one window unit for cooling the living room.

Life with Wes started okay. We helped lay new tiles and repaint rooms, but once drugs took over, the household quickly spiraled. Fights were constant. Some nights, Mom would leave with us in the car. We would sleep there and get ready for school in a gas station restroom. I only had two pairs of school pants a pair of blue jeans and some white jeans. The white pants were a bad choice because of our block schedule; I rotated outfits to try hide them but it was obvious.

My 12th birthday was bittersweet. I spent most of the day hoping for acknowledgment. Then Aunt Kay handed me a small cupcake and said, Happy birthday!! It wasnt much, but it was enough to let me know I wasn’t entirely forgotten.

Determined not to let my little brother Jeff feel the same way, I set out to make his birthday special. I started collecting cans and joined a sketchy-looking program run out of a brown 80s van. A couple that were slightly overweight. The man in his 50s with a gray beard and his large wife with long dark-gray hair ran the scam. Inside the van were five or six kids, each carrying a plastic container filled with about twelve different candy products.

We went door to door with a practiced script:

It went like this.. “Hi, my name is Kevin. I’m with the CYA, the Colonial Youth Achievement. Our mission is to help kids stay off the street and out of gangs and violence. Would you be interested in helping me help other kids”

It wasn't entirely a lie it helped me. After completing a block, the van would pick us up, tally our remaining products, collect our money, and give us a $1 payout for everything sold. I did it as often as I could, saving up to give Jeff a birthday. On the day of his celebration, I walked to the nearest stores an Eckerds and 7-11. I bought what I could. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him a special day and that mattered more than anything for me to give him that.

We stayed in Seagoville for most of my 8th-grade year before Wes convinced Mom to move to Lake Tawakoni. We ended up living with his sister Tami in a cramped two-bedroom trailer. Jeff and I slept on the living room floor, while Wes and Mom took the spare bedroom. It wasn’t ideal, but lying on that floor with headphones in my ears, I discovered two albums that became my lifeline: Metallica Black Album and Stone Temple Pilots. Those nights, the music helped me sleep and kept me grounded when everything else felt chaotic.

Tami wasn’t particularly nice to Jeff and me, but I couldn’t blame her, we were outsiders in her space, two kids in a home not built for children. My brother and I made the best of it by exploring the Lake Tawakoni beaches, hunting for arrowheads. It gave us something to do and a small sense of freedom away from Tamis watchful eyes.

By the summer of 1998, we left Tamis and returned to Seagoville. Back at our house, we quickly realized my aunt Kay and her family were now living there. A small two-bedroom house was now home to nine people. The only window unit was in the living room, and sheets hung in doorways helped trap the air. In the boys room, the five of us slept around a large blower motor. Its exposed blades were dangerous, but it kept us cool by piling sheets over the fan to create a bubble of air to keep cool and fend off mosquitoes.

Around the 4th of July, my aunt told Jamie and me she had found us a summer job. She drove us to what turned out to be a firework stand. As a kid, I was thrilled I loved fireworks but I had no idea how grueling this job would be.

The owner was a wealthy older man, easily recognizable by his brand-new shiny truck and sharp attire. We, on the other hand, pulled up in our old 1977 Monte Carlo, dark green paint faded, black vinyl top peeling. He explained the prices and told us we would get paid at the end of the season. Excited, I imagined the new clothes and video games I could finally buy.

Then we got to work. Setting up the tent was just the beginning. We quickly realized we werent coming home each day we were living there. We were given a cooler with bologna, bread, and water. My aunt left us alone, just a 13-year-old and a 15-year-old, to handle it all. The heat and misery got the best of us quickly, and soon we were snapping at each other. We went three weeks without showers, smelling like fresh-cut onions by the end.

Finally, on the last day, the owner came to collect the keys and money. We had made him $10,000 during those few weeks of hell. He handed our portion to my aunt. The drive home was long and quiet; I just wanted the relief of air conditioning, which the Monte Carlo didn’t have either.

When we pulled into the trailer park, I saw the family enjoying themselves in the swimming pool. Three weeks of hell for us, and they were all having fun. My aunt never paid us she kept it all. She claimed the owner only gave her a few hundred, so she needed it for bills. Once again, the dreams I had built up with that money crumbled into disappointment.

Wes and his mom decided to move back to Lake Tawakoni. In the meantime, we stayed with his grandmother a very kind, deeply religious woman. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic, kid-filled houses we had been in before. Everything had its place, and you felt a constant pressure to be on your best behavior. We stayed there for a few weeks until they found a trailer in a neighborhood in Lone Oak, the next town over. It wasn’t far from school, and there were lots of kids in the area, so we looked forward to the change.

For the first few weeks, we didn’t have electricity, so we relied on kerosene lamps at night just to navigate the trailer. Laundry was a chore my brother would hold the pant leg while I twisted the top to wring out the water by hand. We would hang them over the shower curtain to dry.

A few months into living there, things took a violent turn. Mom and Wes got into a fight, and he grabbed her by the throat. Her face turned red, panic in her eyes. I weighed barely 100 pounds, but I tried to intervene. In a flash, Wes grabbed me by the throat and slammed me through the glass coffee table. Pain and shock coursed through me. He bolted out the door, running down the street.

Instinctively, I grabbed a knife and took off after him. We all stayed in one room that night, terrified he might return. The next morning, Mom handed me a slip of paper with a number on it. Confused, I asked what it was.

That’s your dad’s number,she said and for me to Call him. “If you stay here, Im afraid something worse could happen and you ruin your future.”

Chapter 9: the kick to the gut

Calling my dad was nerve-wreaking I hadn’t spoken to him since Mom left him. When he answered, I stammered, hello? is this Larry?“Yes!who is this?

This is your son Kevin.

There was silence on the line, then a harsh reply: I don’t have a son named Kevin. I disowned him when his mom took all my stuff.

It felt like a knife to my heart. “Okay I’m sorry to bother you” I whispered before hanging up. Tears streamed down my face, a mix of pain, rejection, and helplessness.

Unknowingly, my dads girlfriend at the time, Karen, was sitting on the bed next to him. She said, I know you just didn't tell your son that! He is s just a little boy and isnt responsible for what his mom did to you.

The next morning, a white 1967 Camaro pulled up to our house. It was my sister Rachel. She had a hippie vibe bright eyeshadow, bleach-blonde hair, and colorful clothing. She came to get me and explained that Karen had told her what happened and that it was complete bullshit. Hearing that made me happy, but I couldn’t help feeling nervous. Did my dad really want me to come? Would the past make things miserable?

We gathered the few belongings I had and climbed into my first classic hot rod. We hadn’t gone far when Rachel broke down at a gas station. Now she was going to have to call Dad for help. Not long after, a freshly black-painted 1968 Camaro convertible with a tan top pulled up. The 5-star Cragar wheels gleamed in the sunlight, catching everyones attention. My dad stepped out, brushing back his long brown hair, wearing an old white shirt with cut off sleeves, holy jeans, and flip-flops.

Rachel popped the hood, and within minutes, the car was fixed roaring to life. My dads attitude had clearly changed since the night before he was calmer, more present. He pulled me into a hug, asking how Id been. That simple question, and the hug that came with it, made a huge weight lift off my shoulders.

As we drove toward Red Oak, Texas. I felt a mix of relief and sadness. I was finally leaving the chaos behind, but I was going to miss my little brother terribly. But, for the first time in a long time, I felt hope and a sense of possibility.