Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

A real apology means making things right, not just tossing out empty words. That's why Dad never deserved forgiveness. But Mom never saw it that
way.
I was eleven that year, and it was the last time I had a mom around. After that, life’s storms hit me head-on. Dad's anger was all on me. No more
bedtime hugs, no more "Lana" whispers. Mom's sweet scent was gone, replaced by the stink of smoke and whiskey.-
When Mom left, Dad wasn’t sad. Nope, he cursed her, called her ungrateful, and didn’t even bother with a proper funeral. Every drunken punch that
floored me only cranked up my hatred for him. I’d call the cops, thinking that would fix everything.
But he'd be locked up for just a few days, and each time he came back, he was even angrier, and his hits were harder. I got beaten until I coughed up
blood, until I couldn’t see straight. So many times, I thought I might die. But I didn’t. Sadly, I didn’t.
Maybe because he should die before me.
I hated him, but I hated myself more. Hated myself for being too scared to fight back. Hated how I trembled just seeing him. Hated how I feared
something worse than a beast. That hatred was the only thread keeping me going.
Life was like being stuck in a swamp, reeking of despair. We were poor, I didn’t have a mom to love me, and Dad didn’t care. My grades were
average, and I kept to myself. Perfect target for bullies in middle school.
They turned me into their favorite topic, isolating and mocking me. Verbal jabs can hurt just as much as physical ones. No fists, but their words made
me shake just the same. In class, they’d sneer at my answers, saying I had an annoying high-pitched voice. After class, they’d gossip about my walk,
saying I swayed my hips on purpose.
They’d stick notes on my back, scatter my notebooks, and slap degrading nicknames on me. They laughed at my odd outfits. But they didn’t know the
fear and shame I felt as I figured out puberty alone. I didn’t have a mom to teach me that girls my age wore training bras. To save money, I wore my
mom’s old bras.
Bullying doesn’t care about gender. There was a boy in our class with a learning disability. He was poor too, a day student like me, but he had a
grandma who cherished him. His clothes were always clean, patched up but smelling nice. His backpack always had the boiled eggs and sandwiches
his grandma made for him.
They were merciless with him. Taking advantage of his innocence, they tricked him into the bathroom, making him drink dirty water. They called him
an idiot while stealing his pocket money. They dumped all the class chores on him, saying he couldn’t go home until everything was done. They
called this friendly play.