You’ll Die Alone

Prolog

The sun against the tin wall of the old barn was my refuge on any brisk fall morning.  It warmed my body and chased away the shivers of the predawn darkness. The horses nickered. They were as grateful for the morning hay and oats as I was for the warmth of the sun’s reflection off the tin wall.  From that vantage point, I could see the back of the house. The place I called home was mostly a trap filled with resentful expectations and toil. The only light shining was in the kitchen, where the coffee would be done, and the aroma would fill the house and greet the sleeping.   

The Sleeping. That descriptor applied to an opinionated, angry man. I had seen his anger for years – even warned him he would die alone because of it. But those warnings and the screams of our fights did not change the course. I stayed because of my own need not to break up the family.  He stayed because it was a good gig.  Neither was right.  

The other sleeper was my daughter, and the only object of my unconditional love. She was a beauty and an old soul that I vowed would have a better childhood than mine. A childhood with kindness and in a positive environment. A safe life. I would do anything to preserve her quality of life and somehow let her learn the value of herself and to be strong. I saved my “Nos” for important things and buried criticism before she was born.   

I left one day during those years. It was after a particularly violent fight. Why did I go back? What ill-fated dream could I have believed?  I sense it was my deep-seated need for an unbroken family.  The cost of my noble but poor decision was the loss of myself and my daughter’s emotional wounds.  

While my decision was immediate and long-lasting, my temper was not subdued. My fire and staunchness contributed to many more fights. And many, many more scars.