He never hit me in front of my mother.
He was smarter than that.
He waited until she’d drift off on the couch, or until she’d vanish for two days at a time and come back pretending nothing had happened. Then he’d lean close enough for me to smell beer and chew and say things like, “You oughta be grateful I let you stay here,” or “A boy your age can disappear easy out in these hills.”
The last time I saw my mother, she was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, mascara smeared under her eyes, hands shaking so badly she couldn’t light her cigarette.
“Just go stay with Mason for a couple days,” she said.
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