I laid on my bed, staring up at the shadows playing on the ceiling while I waited for the crunch of gravel and the slam of the truck door that announced my stepfather’s return home. I knew that he had been out drinking again, and I was determined that never again would he hurt anyone in my family. My mind wandered back to the last time he had come home drunk, when he broke my mom’s nose and gave her a split lip. Seeing the defeated look in her eyes the next morning, rimmed in the bruise from the broken nose, I decided that I would kill him if I had to.

Everyone said that I was too mature for a thirteen-year old girl; I talked and acted like an adult. When I was nine, I became a little mother to my brother and sister after my dad died. Being the oldest child, I had decided that I would be the best helper that my mom could ever have and because my dad was gone I felt it was my duty to protect her.

Tonight Stan had gone out to celebrate Zach’s birth; my mom had just come home from the hospital this afternoon with him. I knew that Mom was tired and sore, and in no condition to put up with him. As the front door slammed on its creaking hinges, I pressed my hand against the cool of the rusty iron skillet that I had put under my bed after the last incident. No one had noticed that it was missing, or if they did, no one mentioned it. I could hear him bouncing from wall to wall as he drunkenly stumbled down the hallway toward their bedroom, and as he flung open the door that already had an impression of fist in it, I grabbed the skillet and strode into the bedroom right behind him. I was just in time, for he had already raised his fist.

“Touch her and I will kill you. I will hit you with this over and over and over until you are dead,” I told him. I hoped that I looked and sounded fearless, even though I was so scared and angry that I could barely hold onto the pan; however, I knew that I could and would do it if I had to. He must have been able to see through his drunken fog that I meant what I said, for he simply slurred in reply, too drunk to even make sense, “My house, take care of you in morning.” He weaved to the baby’s crib, picked him up, and somehow made his way back down the hall to the couch in the living room without dropping Zach. My mother was strangely silent through this exchange, but as soon as he left the room with the baby, she sank down on her bed and sobbed until sleep overcame her, even through the hiccups from crying so hard. I wasn’t sure what she would say to me in the morning, if anything, for she normally tended to act as if these incidents never happened.

The hallway from my mother’s room to the living was long and narrow, barely big enough for two people to pass each other. Along the hallway on either side were the three other bedrooms and the single bathroom that we all had to share. That night I was thankful that the rust-colored couch with its mismatched cushions was in direct sight from my mother’s bedroom door, so I leaned against it all night, afraid to sleep for fear of him hurting my mom or Zach.

For once I didn’t mind uncomfortableness of the lumpy and scratchy lime green carpeting, because it helped me to stay alert, a necessity tonight. From the kitchen was the welcome noise of the clock ticking away so loud that even Stan’s snoring couldn’t drown it out. However, it seemed to tick forever, taking away whatever remained of my childhood with each tick. I counted the hours until dawn along with the chirping cuckoo chiming every hour. I knew that it had been two-o’clock when Stan had come home and I had begun my watch as sentry in front of the hole-filled door that hung lopsided when it wasn’t closed, so I was able to keep track of what time it was. I knew that when six-o’clock came it would be time to go back to my room, thankful that it was Saturday and I could sleep in. At seven though, just after feeding Zach, my mother came quietly into my room and sat on my bed. Her eyes were still red from crying so hard last night, but at least there were no bruises on her face.

She looked at me and said, “Thank you sweetheart. I guess I didn’t realize how this was affecting you. After last night I came to some important decisions and I think that you are old enough now to be included in them.” She went on to tell me, softly so that she didn’t wake Stan, that the next time he took a long haul to California we would pack up the house and leave. She needed for me to help her because we would only have one week to get everything we needed packed and out of the house. That was the only good thing about Stan; he would often be gone for a week at a time since he drove a semi-truck cross-country.

“Can you help me?” she asked softly.

“”Yes! Anything to get out of here,” I told her. “I just want my mom back. The one who was funny and quirky, and who wasn’t afraid all the time.”

“Oh sweetie, I wish that I had realized sooner what this was doing to you. If I had known what kind of man he was, I never would have married him. But I was so afraid to be on my own with you three children, that I leapt at the chance to marry Stan.”

I couldn’t believe that she was talking to me like this, like I was a grown up and the surprise must have shown on my face, for she told me, “I realized last night that you were old enough to understand what was going on after the way you stood up for me when I couldn’t do it myself. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”