One
ONE
I blame the rain.
Maybe that isn’t fair though.
Because the trouble in my life didn’t start with that tropical storm. It was just the reason I looked down and realized I was soaked and alone. It’s painful to be honest with myself—to admit the trouble was there long before, starting with and stemming from my mother.
A kid wants to believe his mama does right. Wants to believe she has his best interests at heart. And I did—through hell and high water—I fooled myself into thinking she cared.
I suppose kids are born with innate loyalty running through their veins.
The truth was, my mama didn’t give a rat’s ass about her boys. I was well into adulthood before I made peace with that reality.
The rolling fht, fht, fht, of her lighter is forever seared into my memory. The anxious tremble as she clenched a cigarette between her lips, the inhale of relief, the following sigh. Mama’s face was perpetually worn, exhausted. She wore the oppression and martyrdom of motherhood on her sleeve like a badge. When baby Cooper would cry, she’d angrily flick his chubby leg then thrust his squirming body into my arms, hollering, “Get him quiet.”
I always did .
Cooper and I were raised like free range cattle. Mama didn’t care where we went or what we were up to. As long as we weren’t underfoot, asking for anything, or causing any kind of inconvenience whatsoever. Pretty sure her favorite part of being a parent was the dole—Medicaid, food stamps, housing vouchers.
I could never figure out where our food stamps went. As a kid, I didn’t recognize the difference between drunk and high. But looking back, I can see her buzzes tipped—one right into the other. My gut says she traded the stamps for drugs.
Between her part-time waitressing job, her boyfriends, and alcohol—she didn’t have time for kids. Sometimes, she’d thrust a handful of rumpled dollar bills into my hand and slur. “Take Coop to the store to—get some—bread and milk and stuff. Alright?”
Mama must've thought we were made of bread and milk and stuff, because that’s the only thing she ever really provided. She’d take an occasional bare minimum grocery trip and would sometimes grab food from the community pantry or off a willing boyfriend. But overall, Coop and I were on our own.
Wherever I walked, I walked with my head down, looking for coins and pocketing pennies. Every night before bed, I emptied my pockets into an old coffee can like it was a religious rite. I didn’t have high hopes for that money, no big goals. I just wanted to be able to visit the corner market and buy bread. Because more often than not, there were no wadded bills from Mama’s job. No stamps. No boyfriends.
My school hosted a food drive for the needy every fall. We’d have a barrel in the hallway where kids dumped cans of green beans, creamed corn, and cranberry sauce for the holidays. It took me days to drum up the courage, but eventually it was as natural as breathing. I’d stop at the barrel, unzip my backpack and lean as if I was donating. But I packed cans in, not out.
That barrel saved us many times. And I owe all the generous families at Shelby Cartwright Elementary for making sure Coop and I didn’t starve through the winter. Crazy thing was Mama never asked where the Campbell's alphabet soup came from.
This neglect is where the rain in my life started. Desperate people do desperate shit. And I was desperate on every level a kid could be. The gnawing hunger was so much deeper than physiological. Relationally, I was starving to death. Craving affection like my next heartbeat depended on it. I wanted someone— anyone —to value me.
And maybe that’s why I was so easily bought.
Cooper and I were rough-housing on the living room floor. We would’ve been outside, but it was September and about ninety-five degrees. When the back door swung open and Mama’s laugh, high-pitched and flirtatious, filled the air, we froze with Cooper’s head smooshed into the dirty carpet beneath my thigh.
Mama wore a rare smile. A man, stocky with a whisper of beer belly, escorted her through our back door. He had blonde hair, MacGyver-like. He was ruggedly handsome with a winning smile. At the time, I noticed none of that. My eyes snapped to the grocery bags hanging over his free elbow—Walmart plastic.
Cooper scrambled out of my pin and raced over to Mama. Offered his usual greeting for her, a hug. Sometimes his enthusiasm was matched, typically it wasn’t. He ran to her because he was only seven at the time and didn’t know how to hold a grudge yet.
I hung back.
“Hi, buddy.” She grabbed Cooper up into a hug then gently pushed him back in order to show the man where to drop the bags.
“Come here, Sam.” Even though she smiled and waved me into the kitchen, I saw the frantic strain in her eyes. The silent plead, be polite or pay.
“Boys, I want you to meet someone.” She stroked the man’s arm, chest puffing with pride over her catch. “This is Sloan Henry.” She beamed up at him. “We met at the café a few nights ago.”
Sloan stooped down next to Cooper, fist-bumping him. “Hey, man.”
“I’m Cooper.”
“Good to meet you, Cooper. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He straightened and his eyes flicked to me. He extended his hand. “And you must be the man of the house.”
The man of the house? I’d never been called such a thing. Certainly didn’t see myself that way. But something about being called a man drummed up a sense of responsibility for Mama and Cooper, on top of the invisible burden I already quivered beneath.
I hesitated, then lifted my hand.
“Yes, sir. Name’s Sam.”
“Great to meet you, Sam.” He glanced around the room pointedly. “It’s clear you take good care of this place.”
It took two seconds for me to internalize that. Because I did. I put all I had into making sure we were all going to be alright. Felt good to be recognized.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Like an intrusive thought, I couldn’t stop my knee jerk conclusion: maybe Mom finally found a good one. I could only hope. And something about Sloan’s aura…I liked him. He seemed different than the other sleazy guys my mom gravitated toward.
“Come on, boys.” Mom herded us through the screen door. “Help Sloan bring the groceries in.”
Groceries?
My heart thumped with hope. Cooper squealed and kicked up a cloud of dust on his way to the driveway. The trunk of Sloan’s Taurus popped open like a pirate’s chest. Cooper ahhed as if Sloan was a magician.
Our pantry and fridge went from empty to slammed full. We played Tetris trying to get it all to fit. Inhibitions evaporated. Elation didn’t even begin to describe what we felt. Kids in a candy store. Early Christmas. Tears stung my eyes a few times as I realized I wouldn’t have to rub pennies together and pray for miracles.
Hope dawned in my heart.
Mom was happy.
Cooper was happy.
Even I felt a little happy.
And I wanted to protect that feeling. I was the man of the house after all. Maybe we were going to be alright .
Later that night, Sloan fixed and fired up the dilapidated charcoal grill that was becoming one with the earth in our backyard. He dug the feet out of the dry dirt, cleaned it, filled it with charcoal, and taught Coop how to flip burgers.
Before, Mama rarely ate with us. But she did that night with a smile on her face. Even made me a plate of seconds and patted me on the head—as if for one fleeting moment she was glad to be my mother. The meal was incredible. Juicy burgers made a mess on my face, and I savored every second of it.
For the first time in months, I was full .
Sloan suggested we play a game after dinner. So we played eight rounds of Uno. We laughed , even joked together. I thought I’d hit my head and gone to heaven or accidentally stepped into someone else’s life. Sloan seemed like a genuinely good guy. He was into my mom, wasn’t a scumbag, respected me, and had a steady job as a framing contractor.
Mama didn’t even get drunk. They never cracked open a beer the entire time, which really threw me. I held my breath, waiting for it, but it never happened.
We basked in this bliss for four weeks. Eventually, Sloan moved in with us. When Mama joked around about marriage, he would dip her in a kiss and they’d laugh.
So little made the world so right.
I didn’t understand how one guy could make everything better. As the years have gone by, I look back on these days with mountains of guilt. I missed so many red flags. The smiles and food and fun blinded me—an intentional smoke screen for us all.
Sloan became our axis. Without him, we’d spin back to the way we were. Over time, I learned Sloan had a few…quirks…but in the best interest of the family, I ignored them. It was easier to make excuses, to blame myself as crazy or paranoid.
When I woke up at night, sure someone was in my room, I brushed it off. Just a bad dream.
When I caught Sloan staring at me, I tried to wave it off. Just being friendly .
When he confided in me and wanted to discuss “guy stuff,” I shrugged it off. Just liked to talk.
In no time at all, I dismissed every concern I had, second guessed every thought. Eleven-year-old kids weren’t in any position to question adults. Plus, Mama always called me one of the most anxious children she’d ever met, so it was probably just me being stupid.
But my body wasn’t convinced. Something deep inside me stood at attention, never letting my guard down. Waiting, watching for the shoe to drop. Wondering when the new life we were living would dash to pieces over the rocks.
It was late October. I sat on the front row of the school bus. Driver’s radio was on a news station. Hurricanes were the topic. In the moment, it felt like background noise, chatter. I didn’t listen to most of what was said, didn’t really care. I had a writing assignment due in one of my classes. As I reread my report and replaced a few verbs, I half listened to the speakers drone on and on about damages on some faraway island and tropical storms heading our way.
It was the last time I brushed off something as important as the weather forecast.
As if summoned by the meteorologists, rain plinked against the windows as the bus rolled to a stop in front of Burton Falls Middle School. The rain waxed and waned through the day. But by the time I ran from the bus to the front door of our home, it was pouring, wind gusting. My doused t-shirt clung to my sides. The screen door slammed behind me. In our cool living room, my eyes adjusted to the low light. I kicked my shoes off and lobbed my backpack onto the couch.
I went straight to the kitchen to grab a snack—a novelty that still hadn’t worn off. I grabbed a Coke and slammed the fridge closed, nearly crapping my pants when I saw Sloan leaning against the door frame, nursing a beer against his chest.
He laughed when I startled.
I laughed, too. “You scared me. I thought I was home alone.” An icy trickle of dread ran down my spine, even as I smiled and did my best to appear relaxed. “Mama’s still at work?”
“Yep.”
I popped the tab on my Coke, the fizzling sound caused me to anticipate the tingle in my throat. I took a long sip—it was sickeningly sweet. “Where’s Coop? He’s not home yet?”
“Nah. He went home with a friend.”
I opened the cabinet and grabbed a snack-sized bag of Doritos. “You don’t have work today?”
“I always have work.” He tilted his forehead toward the window. “But it’s raining.”
I shook my head at my stupidity. “Oh, yeah.”
When my eyes met his, the icy trickle turned into a full freeze of panic. Something dark lingered in his gaze, and it scared the hell out of me. All of the disturbing things, uncomfortable friendliness, and one-sided heart-to-hearts came crashing down on me like a boulder from above. I didn’t even know what I feared. I just did. Alarms blared and I had no idea why.
I backed into the living room and hefted my backpack over my shoulder again. “Well, I got some homework to do.”
I settled at the makeshift desk in my room, frantically pulling out books. Writing assignments typically took my mind off of things at home, so I looked over the latest worksheet. But the words blurred together, and I couldn’t make sense of anything.
It’s taken me a long time to accept I didn’t do anything wrong that afternoon. I’ve spent years drowning in guilt and wondering what I could’ve done differently when Sloan knocked on my door. Did my innocent “come in” sound like an invitation? Did I do something to egg him on? Did I deserve what happened in some way?
When he sat on my bed—why didn’t I run? I felt afraid, so why didn’t I listen to my gut?
When he asked me to lock the door—why did I? My legs were shaking, I couldn’t breathe, but I got up from my desk and turned the lock anyway.
That stormy afternoon, with lightning flickering through the cracks of my blinds—my life was forever changed. And at the end of it all, I blamed my own damn self.
From then on, I begged God for drought.
If there was a suspicious cloud overhead, you’d find me kicking around down the street at the creek or at the corner market. I watched the news and the sky like someone losing their grip on sanity. Flecks of rain terrified me and a bleak overcast sent panic sweeping through my veins.
Most people think of Texas as dry, with cracked earth and tumbleweeds. It’s like that in spots, sure. But not where we lived. We weren’t on the coast, but close enough to get storms off the Gulf of Mexico. That year, it rained more than normal. At least, it felt like it did. Whether or not I encountered Sloan, bad weather came hand in hand with intense anxiety. Sometimes, I’d be hiding, wheezing, wondering if I was going to die before the rain let up.
I had several rainy day hiding spots within eyeshot of our driveway. I’d hunker down in one of them—beyond the neighbor’s holly bush, up a tree across the street—and wait for Sloan to go back to work or for Mama to get home. Whichever came first.
But Sloan knew when I was supposed to get home from school. Me coming in—soaked to the bone from sitting in a hideout—moments after Mama got back, was a dead giveaway. So he got creative.
There was no way I could’ve protected myself. But I felt like a dummy who kept getting played.
My life became as predictable as a lottery ticket, meaning I lost every damn time. Because even when Sloan did keep to himself, fear squeezed the life out of me. I looked over my shoulder, never let my guard down. My existence became about staying two steps ahead of Sloan and keeping Cooper within arm’s reach. I never let him out of my sight.
But my vigilance had its limits. Eventually, I’d grow tired. Weeks, months even, would stretch between incidents. And I’d wonder if it was all over. Wonder if Sloan moved on. Wonder if I imagined it all. Pure fatigue inevitably crumbled my defenses.
And he was always waiting.
It’s interesting to note I’ve never been able to recall how many times it happened. A handful of times? Dozens? Actual facts probably don’t matter too much. The first time—the night of the storm—was enough to ruin my life all on its own.
I could fill a book with the manipulative shit he filled my ears with. Now, I recognize the lies he told me. But it sounded like gospel truth to a kid. He’d imprinted the consequences on my brain with a brand of iron: you talk and everything disappears. The food, Mama’s happiness, the ranch. Sloan knew I loved going to my grandparents’ beef ranch, Meadowbrook, every summer. He said I’d never see the ranch again if I told—as if that was his decision.
But one threat kept me compliant. His trump card.
Cooper.
He swore he’d take his arrangement to Cooper if I stepped out of line.
So I did whatever he asked.
It amazes me when I look back and allow myself to remember the weight of those days. For the most part, I carried on like normal. Besides the lilac circles forming beneath my eyes and my loss of appetite, my outside stayed roughly the same. Life heaped burden after burden on my shoulders and somehow, I held them up. Sure, I was near collapse, emotionally stuck in fight or flight, but I held them up all the same.
After months of being abused, my brain and heart finally caught up. Panic attacks became a routine part of my life. My body rebelled—collapsing in the bathroom at school, unable to get out of bed, puking for no reason at all.
It pissed Mama off when she had to leave work early to come pick me up from the nurse’s office. And trust me, I didn’t want to get picked up, but I had no coping tools. I was absolutely clueless on how to survive under so much pressure.
I’ll never forget the first time I was locked in a coat closet.
It started with a rare stroke of courage. A Saturday afternoon in mid-April. Sloan was out finishing up a job and Mama had just gotten home from the cafe lunch shift.
I hovered awkwardly in the kitchen as she fixed a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. She huffed a laugh and furrowed her brow. “What do you want, Sam? Why you standin’ there like that?”
Her eyes dropped to my hands, which I realized I was wringing.
I shoved them in my pockets.
“Uh, I wanted to…” I paused to swallow and the words didn’t come back.
She waved her light in a circle, eyes widening in annoyance. Yes?
“I wanted—to talk to you.”
I’d practiced this moment. I had to follow through. Mama and Sloan had obliterated all my expectations for them. I figured they would break up early and the nightmare would end, but no. They were going seven months steady now. I had to do something.
Mama would protect me if she knew the truth. Protect us. She wouldn’t let anything else happen. She was a distracted mother, sure, but deep down, beneath all the layers, she was still a mother. If I told her, she would believe me.
That’s what I convinced myself anyway.
She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Oh, coming to your ol’ mom for some wisdom, I see. Fire away.” The tendons in her neck tightened as she pulled air through her light. “Wait. Let me guess. Is there a girl?”
“Uhm, no. Nothing?—”
“Did you get in trouble or something?”
I ran a hand through my hair, my nerve spinning down the drain. “No.”
“Alright, well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me.”
Before I could back down, I murmured the words. “It’s about Sloan.” Nausea followed hot on the heels of his name. Faint dizziness crowded in, and I gripped the counter for support. Sloan could be home any minute, and the loud blowing sound from the window air conditioning unit drowned out any car engine pulling up the drive .
Mom and I were never alone for more than a few minutes at a time.
I had to spit it out.
The amusement vanished from her face. “What about him?”
I could barely form the next words. “He’s not…he’s not very nice to me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
I couldn’t meet her gaze. “He—he, uhm. He hurt me.” The words felt stupidly hollow. So flimsy a description it was laughable. To this day, I look back and cringe at this moment. It’s still painful to remember how small and inhuman I felt using the word hurt .
“Hurt you?” She tapped out the cigarette in a tray, giving me more undivided attention than she had in weeks. “Like how?”
I lifted my t-shirt and her gaze raked over my ribcage. Her swallow was visible, a beat of worry knitting her brows. “Sloan did that?”
The back door banged open.
I dropped my t-shirt back over my belly.
Sloan stood there in his sweaty shirt and worn jeans. His smile twitched with suspicion before he made it across the threshold. “Hey, you two.”
Mama turned, threw him a forced smile. “Hey.”
Sloan kissed her on the cheek. His dark eyes flicked to mine—a warning.
He nodded to my shirt. “Something wrong?”
I shook my head.
Sloan turned to Mama. “What happened? I saw you looking at him.”
I said, “It’s nothing.”
A flash of indecision twisted Mama’s lips before she betrayed me. She lifted my shirt as I tried to walk away and said over her shoulder, to Sloan, “He said you did that?”
Sloan’s gaze met mine again—a glare.
His head tipped forward in disappointment. His voice was so soft, no one in their right mind would argue with him. He kissed the ridge of her shoulder. “Oh, Janice, I’m so sorry. I told you this would happen.”
“Wow. Yeah, you called it.” She looked at me, hurt welling up in her eyes.
“Called what?” I scarcely recognized my voice.
“I told her a few days ago that as you become closer to manhood, you’re going to test your limits and see what you can get away with. That you’d go to any lengths to defy authority, specifically mine. Very typical behavior for boys. This proves it.”
Mama’s jaw clenched in anger.
“Want me to handle it, angel?” He swiped hair off her forehead.
She gave a weak, pathetic nod. Like Sloan was Prince Charming saving her from a dragon. “Probably best you do.”
Sloan plucked her mug off the counter and gently put it in her hands. “Go rest. I got this.”
Mama left the room, tossing me a withering glance.
He’d caught me—seconds away from spilling our secret.
Punishment included a searing smack on each cheek and the entire evening and night jammed into the bottom of our coat closet. I couldn’t stretch my legs or hardly even turn around.
I had to listen to the three of them eat dinner at the dining room table, watch the football game, drink, and have sex —Sloan and Mama did it on the couch that night. Acted like they forgot I was in there. Like I didn’t even freaking exist. But when the house was silent, I wished for the noise. Because the one thought going through my head over and over was making me physically ill.
I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing.
The repeated thought filled the silence in my brain until I was deaf to it—desensitized to the sting.
When Mama had the choice to believe me, she didn’t. She chose him.
The sexual abuse I endured in my childhood home was one thing.
Being trapped. Another.
Being betrayed. Another.
Being slapped. Another.
Being abandoned in the dark. Another .
So many anothers.
Later, I met Miss Simone and she taught me that all people are born with a love doorway in their hearts. Naturally, it’s open. Love is given and received, a welcome part of life from the very first breath. But then…sometimes stuff happens.
Maybe tragedy. Betrayal. Trauma. Abuse.
The door is pushed.
It might slam shut. It might inch shut.
But once that door closes, only a miracle can open it again.
Sitting in that closet, I couldn’t name what I felt. The emptiness licked up and consumed what was left of my insides. I watched myself from a distance. I didn’t know that kid in the closet. He was a shell. A big nothingness.
And my door…it was closing.