It was a beautiful, sunny, Saturday morning. I was playing in the front yard. I remember the red truck I would pretend to drives all around the yard. I would create little roads and signs for it. I was 5 years old.

"Hey dork" said a voice from above me. The shadow cast by the person was familiar. Devon, my older brother.

I said nothing. He kicked over my truck and messed up my roads. He walked back into he house, laughing like a maniac.

He did this ever time.

I looked back at the house to see if he was gone but instead I saw Dad walking out. In one swift movement he picked me up in his arms and carried me to the car. He put me in the back and buckled my seat belt.

"Where are we going Papa?" I remember asking. I didn't get an answer. I could smell the alcohol off of him.

He drove for hours. Even into the night, we were still driving. I was scared and confused. Where were we going? Why weren't Momma and Devon with us?

I didn't bother asking. I knew what the answer was going to be, silence.

Eventually, around midnight, Papa parked the car in the parking lot of a motel. He picked me up out of the back of the car and carried me inside. I don't remember much else of that day, most likely because I fell asleep.

The next couple days were a blur in my memory. Pap and I mostly sat in the motel room. He drank and watched TV, and I watched him.

I watched him with anger and saddness. I just wanted tog o home. But again, I said nothing. The silence was worse than being yelled at. Because if he yelled at me, at least I was worth his time. The silence meant I wasn't. His time was valuable and I was not.

He never told me that, but it was implied, heavily.