When you've got no one to tell them to

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five


After threatening to run away if one more brother was brought into my life, I was over the moon when Taylor was born exactly ten days before my tenth birthday.  "She's my early birthday present," I proudly told everyone who would listen. Things were... rough at home in a way I didn't comprehend at the time.  Mom struggled a lot, especially when Taylor couldn't be soothed - lord knows she didn't get much help from Dad.

Due to a promotion that brought with it a transfer, a year later we moved back to the miserable hole of a town where I was born.  This was the same town The Donor lived.  New town, new house, new school, new parent to spend weekends with.  Oh, yes: I had to go over there every other weekend, and even at 11 I knew that the only reason he *demanded* visitation was because he had papers stating he had the RIGHT to access.  That was one messed up household, with an adopted brother who no longer beat on me, but was still strange; a half-brother who was failing kindergarten; and a "father" who diligently worked his way to the bottom of a bottle far too regularly (I don't remember if it was every day, but I do know I was aware of the regularity with which he drank).

It wasn't all bad.  He taught me how to bake a pie (with pastry from scratch).  He introduced me to a mess of family I didn't really remember from when I was younger.  He gave me the gift of time with my grandparents.  He took us hiking around the marshes and backwoods where he played as a child, something I never would have seen at home.  He gave me a lot of freedom, too: playing outside after dark; weekend-long sleepovers with friends; being left at the mall sans adult supervision.

At home, I had an unhappy mother who was isolated (no, seriously: Dad would give her $150 to buy two weeks worth of groceries for five people, one of which was a baby in diapers and on formula, and didn't increase the amount for dog food when he brought home two dogs - oh, and don't forget his precious cigars, hey?; she had no ATM card, no credit card, and no cheque book - hell, her NAME wasn't even on the bank account), and a father who liked to stay out late "drinking" (he'd come home at 4am: all the bars closed up shop at 11pm - but, noooo! he wasn't cheating on her! (That particular claim was blown out of the water when the office receptionist got a transfer to the town we moved back to after Mom and Dad split up - she FOLLOWED him here, but they weren't having an affair!)).  It was ugly.  I'd lay awake waiting for him to come home and then listen to them fight.

Mom started planning and preparing to leave.  I guess because she felt so isolated, I became her confidante at the age of 12: I likely knew far more than I should have.  She started tightening the grocery budget and setting aside any amount she could scrimp away; she would forgo buying us new clothes with the monthly child allowance cheques to build up a bit of a nest egg; she would buy cheap beach towels when they'd go on sale and hide them in with the winter clothes.  I don't really remember the day she told Dad that she was taking us and moving back here.

I do remember an end of the year/going away party in our huge backyard with all of my friends.  I do remember feeling conflicted saying goodbye to the other side of my family that I had just started to get to know.  I do remember looking at our house through the back window of the car as the four of us drove away.  Those two years saw far more memories solidify in my mind: I can remember so much more from that time for some reason - nothing significant, just more and more clearly.