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KITTENS cuddled with their mother, kneading her stomach as they nursed.

Mews and purrs brought a smile to my lips; simple, natural love.

Leather and hay mixed with my mom’s shampoo scented the stagnant air in the main barn until she opened the double doors facing the pond.

A light breeze brought freshness and a calm energy as it flowed past our horse and out the opposite doors.

The barn was the one area of our property where I could hide from my dad when he drank.

He hardly ever bothered to wander very far from the house when he had a bottle in his hand.

My happy place was in the middle stall; it was also the closest area to the house where I could close both the exterior and interior stall doors to escape the sounds of arguing, breaking dishes, and slamming doors.

The mother cat kept her new babies in a box I put in the stall just for her. Mom and I played with them for a few minutes each day while we did our chores. White fur covered my favorite new kitten; I named her Peanut because she was the smallest of the litter.

Mom let me name all the critters as they found their way to our property. She said I had the most creative mind of any twelve-year-old she knew. Sometimes I wondered if she even knew any other kids my age.

Soloman, our black gelded Morgan, sensed trouble before other creatures in the barn.

From his spot in the first stall, he knickered, stomped, then turned, and ran out the outer door into the pasture.

The goats and donkeys followed, throwing dust behind their short bodies.

A tall, slow-moving shadow stalled as my dad stood in the middle of the aisle between the tack and feed rooms.

“Susan.” His deep voice vibrated through the air and chills ran up my spine.

We stilled, and I stared at Mom through the thick lenses of my new glasses. I questioned with my eyes if I should speak. One quick shake of her head kept me quiet. Her eyes were wide, and she held her breath as he neared. I was sick of being scared.

I promised myself that one day I would be strong enough to be a man and stick up for my mom. She always told me to just do what he said, but she always did, and where did that get her? Hit, bruised, in the hospital time and time again. I was so sick of this being our normal.

“I know you’re in here. The doors are open.”

Knowing she had no choice but to reveal our location, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Somehow, she found the strength to put a sweet tone in her voice.

“We’re in here.” She stood and when I joined her, she pointed to the corner; I sank into the hay, thankful I couldn’t see him.

Maybe that meant he couldn’t see me, either.

With my back against the wall, I pulled my knees to my chest and waited. Whiskey on his breath wafted from the middle of the barn all the way into my stall and stung my nose. I tucked my face between my knees to ward off the smell and pushed back tears. If he knew I was crying, I’d get it, too.

At the same time his hand connected with her face, Mom cried out. Through the partially open stall door, she glanced at me from the floor. Dirt covered her hands and dusted her tear-stained face.

“Don’t tell me that rat of a cat had more kittens.” His giant hand wrapped around her hair and Mom disappeared from my vision.

“She only had four this time. I’ll find homes for them, I promise.” Pleading with him, her voice raised an octave.

“What you’ll do is what I tell you to do. You’re supposed to be processing chickens for dinner, and what do I find? You wasting time with useless animals.”

This time his contact was forceful enough that she landed on her knees in the stall beside me, her eyes sad and wet.

Blood trickled from her split lip, down her chin, and dripped into the hay.

Every time this happened, she promised she would make it stop, but never could.

No matter how many times she tried to be sweet, it ended up in another bloody nose, split lip, or bruised eye.

“You’re also supposed to be raising our kid to be a man, not a fat-ass wimp.”

I held my breath; I had hoped he would forget about me.

Deep-set eyes the color of coal focused on Mom. Dad’s gaze darted from her to me to the box of kittens, then back to Mom. In one swift motion, he raised his hand, closed his fist, and connected with the soft spot on Mom’s side. One eye swollen shut, she looked away before she cried out in pain.

“The way you’re raising him, locals will think he’s a cheechako.

Is that what you want? For our neighbors to think your precious Jakey has just arrived in the Great Land?

Like he doesn’t know how to act or make a life in the Pass?

” Flannel covered my dad’s enormous frame; his muscles flexed under the material as he picked up my mom and wrapped his hand in her long dark blond hair.

“No, I swear. Everyone knows he’s blood.” She whimpered and kicked her feet, trying to reach the ground. “Please let me go.”

He carried her to the neighboring stall, which we hadn’t cleaned yet and, when he shoved her to the ground, a pile of horse poop softened her fall. “That’s not what I’m told.”

Riding equipment lined the outside of the stalls; my dad pulled a whip from the wall and swung it. Hard. Hard enough for him to grunt, and for her to scream.

“No, no, Robbie. Please, don’t.” Her voice was weak and thick with emotion.

There was nothing I could do. If I tried to fight him, he’d beat her worse.

And me; he’d do the same thing to me as he did to her.

It killed me how she took the full brunt of his fists to save my face and body from breaks and bruises.

My mom loves me so much that she’s willing to put her life in danger to save me.

One day, I swear, I’ll make him stop.

Anger rose in my soul and my chest tightened.

A frown pulled my eyebrows into a “V” and tears wetted my cheeks.

If I were only big enough, strong enough to fight him.

I’d pound him to a pulp and make him sorry.

At least once every day I fantasized about what it would feel like to punch him in the face and drop him to his knees.

Sometimes more. I would force him to apologize, leave all his money, and walk down our long driveway never to be seen again .

After a brief struggle, the whip sounded different but I couldn’t tell why.

Over the next several minutes, my mom cried, begged, and screamed before eventually going silent.

Only then did my dad relent. He stood tall; between the iron bars which separated the stalls, the sweat dripping from his face seemed normal.

I had witnessed the same expression many times, just not after he had beaten my mom into submission.

He panted like a tired dog, turned and exited the stall, locking it behind him.

Once I was certain he had left the barn, I went to her.

Outside the locked door, a pair of jeans, a shirt, and her muck boots lay in a pile beside her parka.

It made sense why the whip sounded different; she was naked.

My stomach rolled, and I thought I would be sick.

I unlocked the door and squeezed my eyes shut as I pushed her clothes through a crack in the door.

As she dressed, she reassured me. “One day, Jakey, I swear we’ll get away from him. I just need to save up enough money first.” She took a deep breath, wiped her face, and put on a fake smile. “Right now, though, we need to clean some chickens.”

I MOVED the chicken block outside so the rain could wash away all the mess. This was the absolute worst part of my chores. I hated killing anything—even if it was for food. These poor chickens hadn’t done anything to hurt me, yet I had to hurt them. I was forced to end their lives.

Feathers scattered with the crushing blow of the hatchet.

Blood spattered my clothes and stained the stump.

The first time I cleaned the chickens, I forgot to take off my parka and tried to hide the stains when I went to school.

Kids are so cruel when they don’t understand.

Disturbed at the sight of birds running around, headless, until they finally died, I cringed.

More feathers littered the ground as we readied the three dead birds to be plucked.

Lost in a memory, I did the rest of my chores in a daze.

It was the best way to keep my mom from having to explain why she let him continue to hit her.

When I was younger, Mom had hidden the horrible arguments well.

She would make Dad wait until after I was in bed before they went to the barn to fight.

I could still hear them, but I never said anything.

She covered the bruises on her face with makeup or made excuses when I asked what had happened.

Scared to know the truth, I convinced myself not to ask about it.

Mom had always told me how real men did something good for other people. Her dad had saved a man from a fiery car crash when he was younger, got burned himself, but never complained.

“Now, that’s my idea of a real man. Someone not afraid to risk their life to save someone.” Her advice was to make my friends and more importantly, strangers, happy; to help them be better people. In turn, I would be a better person; I’d have a purpose.

On my tenth birthday, Mom let the ice cream melt too much and a sticky residue coated a circle on the table. Dad slapped her across the face so hard she dropped to her knees. I guess he thought I was finally old enough to recognize the consequences of not obeying.

I was so surprised that all I could do was stare at her in disbelief. After he went to bed, Mom sat me down and explained that as long as she didn’t make him angry, he wouldn’t slap her again.