When I moved in with Mom, I had my own room for the first time. It had wallpaper and a matching bedspread, an antique dresser and a big closet. I had only a few clothes I’d brought with me in a brown paper bag. “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “I’ll buy you lots of pretty new things.”
I went to sleep that night feeling safe. I prayed I wouldn’t have to leave.
Mom did lots of nice things for me. She took me to church. She let me have pets and gave me horseback riding and piano lessons. Every day, she told me she loved me. But love wasn’t enough to heal the hurt inside me. I kept waiting for her to change her mind. I thought, “If I act bad enough, she’ll leave me like the others.”
So I tried to hurt her before she could hurt me. I picked fights over little things and threw tantrums when I didn’t get my way. I slammed doors. If Mom tried to stop me, I’d hit her. But she never lost patience. She’d hug me and say she loved me anyway. When I got mad, she made me jump on a trampoline3.
Because I was failing in school when I came to live with her, Mom was very strict about my homework. One day when I was watching TV, she came in and turned it off. “You can watch it after you finish your homework,” she said. I blew up. I picked up my books and threw them across the room. “I hate you and I don’t want to live here anymore！” I screa