My Brother played baseball, and he was a valued player because he was a switch hitter.
It was an important game.
I had little interest in watching, and I asked if, like usual, I could go play.
My Dad warned me, "Don't go too far. Your Brother has a band concert."
Too far for him meant out of yelling or whistling range.
Growing up, that's how my Dad would call us, he'd whistle really loud, and if we didn't come when he whistled, we'd get in trouble.
I walked behind the bleachers and across the bike trail to the trees by the Flint River. Maybe 100 feet away from the dugout.
The limbs here weren't any good for climbing (besides, my parents wanted me to stay clean), but I could still play.
I kept checking the game, waiting to see my Dad getting ready to leave.
My grandparents has also attended and they left.
I watched my Dad closer now.
We'd be leaving soon.
My Brother grabbed his bag and ran from the dugout. My Dad leaned on the chain-link fence.
I hurried toward them.
They darted across the road, leaped in the car, and sped off. I ran after them. Waving my arms like a maniac and yelling.
But he didn't stop.
Panting, I started to sob.
He left me.
A woman, who I assumed was a mom at the game with her kids, walked over to me.
"What happened," She asked.
"My Dad left me," I replied.
"Okay, well, I'm sure he'll be back to get you." She answered.
I just stood there watching for him drive away. Crying as this strange woman tried to make small talk. I remember feeling annoyed because she didn't seem to feel bad for me, but yet somehow obligated to wait with me.
She said I should have been paying better attention.
Eventually, my Dad returned. He looked frantic as he waved me across the busy street.
"You forgot me," I said.
"I thought you were with your grandparents. Why weren't you paying attention? I told you we were leaving early." He answered.
"I did. As soon as you left the dugout, I ran after you."
When I got to my Brother's band concert, I told my Mother what happened, but she said the same thing:
"Why weren't you paying attention?"
YOU ARE READING
What My Mother Forgot
Non-FictionBefore reading this, you should know... This is not a happy story. There is no happy ending. Simply put, this is a chronological account of the abuse, neglect, and bullying I suffered at the hands of loved ones from birth to 17 years old. It does no...
