had never experienced a plethora of anything except my mother’s love. My mother would hold me in her lap and read to me, pointing out the words to help me learn my letters.
Bath time was my favorite. In our adjoining bathroom, Mother would hold a plastic cup of water over my head and smile. “Okay, Vita Mia, close your eyes and pretend to be a free mermaid under a waterfall.”
Giddy for the opportunity to use my imagination, I squealed and tilted my head back, eyes closed, ready to envision every page she had just read in one of my precious books. With my legs held together, I would wiggle them like a huge mermaid flipper, loving how my scales sparkled in the moonlight.
Since dinner wasn’t usually brought to us, my mother would fill that same plastic bath cup and say, “Okay, Vita Mia, let’s pretend you are drinking the most delicious soup, and it is filling your belly with a warmth that makes you sleepy and happy and ready to dream of the world waiting just for you.”
Naïve, and luckily so, I would close my eyes and drink the warm water, imagining the full sensation in my belly. It would work. Happy and satisfied, I would yawn and crawl into bed without a complaint as rumbles of hunger echoed in our room. My mother would drink warm water, then join me, wrapping me tightly in her arms.
Sometimes, I was blessed and got to have her hold me all night long. Most of the time, late into the evening, she would be yanked from our bed and thrown to the floor, where my fathers would grope and undress her. Since it was common—all I had ever known— and my belly was full of warm water, I would sleep through much of it. As I got older—crossing from a toddler to a little girl, that became more challenging. I can’t be sure of my age, because Mother lost track of the days and years that passed us by at its cruel pace, but I believe I was around the age of six when her struggles were no longer easy to overlook. Without my permission, my innocent ignorance began to slightly clear. Her cries became more noticeable. Her apparent suffering started tugging at my heart, even though I had never known my fathers to be kind. I never had an example of anything to compare their actions with.
The first night my fathers’ routine attacks started truly scaring me, I cried out for her, not quite sure why my heart was racing.
During her horrid abuse on our bedroom floor, she endearingly told me, “Vita Mia, go back to sleep.”
I believed her false calm and closed my eyes, falling back asleep to the sound of her being struck by one of my fathers. Whack!
He warned, “Don’t speak that Italian shit in this house.”
Not being permitted to learn about my heritage was especially unkind, as the men who spawned me preferred that I not exist at all, but what they were doing to her was far worse.
When Mother spoke of her own father, tears would fall, and her ocean blue eyes would see beyond our prison walls. She would wish out loud, “Had only his hunger for more wealth not blinded him to the devil in disguise.”
The devil had tricked my grandfather into believing he would bounty without a cost.
Now, as a woman with eyes wide open, I say, “To men who believe anything is free, may they lose their eyes and feet.” That way they can continue to be blind, yet not have the ability to run from the price of their crimes. Just as my mother nor I could.
I believe I was almost seven years old when I awoke to mother sitting on top of my stomach one night, a knife in the air being held over my chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut, an agony-stricken face crying…
I whispered, “Mama?”
She gasped and snapped her eyes open. Then ultimate pity replaced her expression of dread. The knife slowly coming down to rest on the bed next to me, instead of in my chest, was her choice. I see that now. I understand her ultimate regret for not being stronger at the crucial moment, where my fate could have been altered for the better.
Her haunting whisper and cry are now embedded in my soul. “I am so sorry, Vita Mia. I have failed you. Your angel hasn’t come, and I do not possess the will to