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Stephen was about 6mths old. My mom was sitting at the kitchen table holding him. My father was mad because “that little bastard” was at our house again. He just knew that my sister was going to dump “the little shit” on him and he was going to have to raise another “good for nothing brat.”

He threw a cup of ice water at her, the sting of the cold startling the baby.

He punched her in the mouth, ‘you’re so stupid, why do you make me do that to you?’

He slapped her face, ‘one of these days maybe you’ll learn.’

He gives her a push, just enough to push her out of the chair and onto the floor.

The baby was screaming uncontrollably. She still had him in her arms, trying to protect him the best that she could, protecting him from his own grandfather.

The rest is a blur.

What’s not a blur is my sister coming to our house the next day and asking my mom where she got the fat lip from, like she really had to ask. My mom lied, she was a pro at making up stories, making up excuses. My sister didn’t care.

I proceeded to tell her the truth. ‘He doesn’t want Stephen here, thats why he beat her. You can’t bring him here anymore, please.  It won’t stop if you keep bringing him here.’

It didn’t faze her, he was back the next weekend.

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