God's punishing me for having you
I hate this house. Too many terrible memories in it.
Fast forward to now. I have a lot of days where I can shake loose of all that crap. I can ignore it, I can look around my little "island", and see how I have ended successfully, if this is even the ending.
I have a decent home. I am making all my bills on time. I have a good job, and I'm good at it. I've come to terms with who I am, and frequently make jokes at my own expense. I'm a chemist, not a psychologist or an educator. I don't claim to be the life of the party. I'm incredibly naive, and I don't pretend to be "experienced".
Recently, I learned that last statement. My parentals are moving. The house itself stirs up miserable memories, and the neighbors aren't good enough. A "for sale" sign lurks in the front yard. Even if I wanted to go home, there won't be a home to go to. Their new chosen location is farther away, and more difficult to visit.
I'm indifferent over the whole thing. I can't imagine the interior without a screaming fight, or the sting of getting slapped, again. But lurking in that house, is a recovery from surgery. A moment with God that shaped my life. Post-surgery, 1991. I sat at the kitchen table, fighting off another headache. And it was then I realized.. I was spared. I was saved for some spectacular purpose. Some purpose my 12-year old head couldn't grasp, but it was out there. I wasn't punished because I needed the surgery, and it wasn't some punishment like my mother claimed. Her life wasn't being punished by my illness, and neither was I. I was changed in the surgery. A voice that was mine was replaced. I was spared, and healed, quicker than predicted by anyone with a medical degree. And even though she said my pain was so she could suffer, it just wasn't true.
That house holds that moment for me. Now, I will need to hold it in my head, that kitchen table in the dim light. The puzzle pieces I was trying to connect. The realization I had at that moment I could have been dead, and I wasn't.