The day I was taken from my mother was a day of great sadness and confusion. Thoughts were racing through my head like what is going on? Why is dad hitting momma? This was a terrible day. It was winter and snow had fallen heavy on the ground outside. The wood stove was warm and welcoming. I was 6 when this whole fiasco happened. The warm stove felt great on my cold hands while my momma watched TV and snuggled with me. Everything was as it should be. I was so comfortable and happy at the time.

Everything changed when my dad slammed open the door. The cold air made me shiver and get goose bumps. I looked up and said “daddy!” but the look on his face was not the happy one I was used to seeing, this was a look of pure rage and anger. My father was yelling obscene things at my momma that I didn’t understand. He was yelling and cussing up a storm. I had always known what cussing was and what it ment but the way he said it, was extremely violent and scary. I was so afraid I jumped out of my moms arms and hid by the couch as I watched my dad come by my momma and start slapping her in the face really hard. Each hit was harder than the last because I could hear the echo and the hard contact it had when it hit her. I was thinking,” Why is daddy hurting momma like this?” It was such a terrible thing to see.

My Father after hitting my momma, came over to me and picked my up by my hood and yelled at me to go to the bronco. I ran as fast as I could to go and get in the bronco. My dad started to walk out of the house, his hand was bright red from hitting momma. After seeing him get in the bronco I fainted and that was all I could remember of that day.