People were yelling at each other in my kitchen. It sounded like mom and dad. So I dropped the doll that I was playing with, toddled out of my bedroom, and down the wooden staircase.
Their voices grew louder and angrier as I passed through the creme and turquoise colors of the living room.
I stopped dead in my tracks, shocked, and feeling helpless. A four-year-old can't protect themselves let a grown man like my dad.
Mom stood to the right of me, baring a pointed knife. Dad was to my left, arms spread wide, palms up. He was far enough away not to get stabbed.
I don't remember saying anything to either one of them. But they both went silent and both glanced down at me.
Mom dropped her weapon.
It wasn't long after this event that my sister, mom, and I were on a plane to Florida.
Years later, my dad explained that the incident was over her obsession to strip and wax the floors throughout their house every other day, including the wooden staircase. Everyone in the house had slipped and hurt themselves on the later.
He just couldn't deal with her obsessions anymore, the violence, or her wacky stories.
Mom wasn't like other moms or wives. I learned that early on.
To be continued...