Trigger Warning: The following post contains descriptions of child abuse, including physical punishment and emotional neglect, which may be triggering for some readers. Please proceed with caution.

From the ages of five to ten, my childhood existed within a grim and predictable loop. Ricardo, our father, ruled our household with an iron fist, demanding constant chores with expectations that were not only unrealistic but designed for failure. Punishment was swift and often brutal when we inevitably fell short of his impossible standards.

Weekends offered no respite. If Liam and I didn’t feign interest in the old television shows Ricardo favored, we paid the price. He would claim the TV, forcing us to endure his outdated programs. Showing even a flicker of boredom or disinterest was a dangerous act. It would provoke Ricardo to invent impossible tasks, thinly veiled excuses for physical punishment. His preferred method was the sickening thud of a belt against our butts. Sometimes, in a particularly cruel twist, he would force us to choose the very belt that would inflict the pain. Even now, the thought of presenting such a choice to an innocent child I nanny sends a shudder of revulsion down my spine. To look into a trusting face and deliberately inflict such pain… it’s a violation that cuts me deeply.

Every Sunday became an exercise in terror. Ricardo would command us to scrub and wash the cars parked along our busy, narrow street. The roar of passing vehicles inches away filled us with a primal fear, yet the fear of Ricardo’s wrath was far greater. We would hunch over the cars, scrubbing frantically as traffic whizzed by. On multiple occasions, horrified passersby would warn our parents of the danger, only to be dismissed with a callous, ‘They know what they’re doing.’ Our safety was secondary to Ricardo’s need for control and outward appearance.

Growing up, our family’s financial reality was starkly different from the facade Estella tried to maintain. We often subsisted on a meager diet of beans and rice, a consequence of Estella’s unchecked spending. Credit cards were maxed out, bank accounts drained. Arguments about money were frequent, with Estella often deflecting blame by claiming her spending was ‘for the children.’ This, inevitably, fueled Ricardo’s rage, which he would then unleash upon us.

One memory, in particular, remains etched in my mind, a chilling snapshot of our childhood. I was around six, Liam seven. We shared a room, along with Lila. Every night, Estella would administer Benadryl, ostensibly for ‘allergies.’ The truth, I believe now, was far more sinister: it was a sedative, a way to ensure our quiet compliance. Children are naturally restless, their sleep patterns erratic. One night, Liam and I were whispering, the innocent chatter of siblings. Our parents, their patience exhausted, erupted. Ricardo stormed into our room, yanking Liam and me from our beds. Lila, the golden child, cried, and Estella soothed her with practiced ease. You’ll notice a recurring theme: Lila was often shielded from our parents’ fury.

Ricardo dragged Liam and me outside, pushing us against the cold exterior wall of our home. He forced us into a stress position: one leg raised, hands behind our backs, our noses the only point of contact with the wall. If our foreheads touched, a torrent of yelling would erupt. They locked the front door, leaving us exposed to the drunken tirades of our alcoholic neighbor. Periodically, a face would appear at the window, checking to ensure we remained immobile and silent. Liam and I dared not speak, dared not move, paralyzed by the fear of what awaited us inside. Minutes stretched into an eternity. I remember thinking, with a strange sense of relief, that I would endure this agonizing position a thousand times over rather than face the belt.

Finally, what felt like an endless torment, they brought us back inside. Their words, devoid of any genuine remorse, echoed in the silent house: ‘We didn’t want to do that, but you made us with your talking.’

The memory of that night, pressed against the rough stucco, the alcoholic neighbor’s slurred shouts a bizarre soundtrack to our silent suffering, remains a cold knot in my stomach. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort or the fear of discovery; it was the crushing realization of our utter powerlessness. We were playthings in a drama not of our making, bound by rules we didn’t understand, and punished for infractions we couldn’t foresee. The ‘we didn’t want to do that but you made us’ echoed the twisted logic that permeated our lives, a constant shifting of blame that left us perpetually on edge. The reprieve after CPS was a cruel tease, a brief glimpse of a world where a belt wasn’t a tool of terror. But the undercurrent of Ricardo’s rage, Estella’s manipulative control they were always there, a simmering threat waiting to boil over. And as I lay back in the bed, in the room Liam and I shared that night, the silence felt less like peace and more like the ominous quiet before the next inevitable storm.