Sing For Me. Betsy Jiron. Читать онлайн. Hotlib. HOTLIB.NET

It was Sunday morning when I woke to the sound of the vacuum. The heat from my single size waterbed was about 15 degrees too high and the sweat from my chest had soaked my nightshirt.

I learned to associate the sound of the vacuum with a feeling of comfort. Not only did it mean I didn't have to do it, it meant Dad was doing it. When Dad did our “jobs”, he was in an exceptional mood.

I rolled myself out of bed and opened my shades. It was a beautiful Colorado day. I cracked the window to feel the breeze and smell the crisp clear air. As I gazed out the window, I felt a light familiar tug on my nightshirt. I looked down and smiled at my baby sister's beautiful smile and big brown eyes. I didn't have to force myself to breathe when she was near me.

Sunday was the one-day a week the “family” ate breakfast together. My three brothers; Derren, Max and Niko, my sister Marissa, Step-mom, dad and myself gathered around the large oak table for our Sunday morning meal. This was normally followed by a chapter or two of the Children's Bible. This was always read by my father. I believe this was more for my step-mom than our spiritual well-being. She liked to pretend we were a real family.

Sunday seemed to be the only day a week I wasn't battling some sort of emotional trauma endured by the cursed vocal chords of my parents. My step-mom (which I normally referred to as “step-monster”) wasn't creative by any means with her attempt at degrading me verbally. However, they still hurt. There were rare occasions when she would say something pleasant, but the sound of her voice made me want to vomit on her uppity brand name clothes.

I never grew out of the comfort of Sunday mornings. To this day, I start the mornings with the vacuum…and my own children's big brown eyes.

CHAPTER 1

Family

My parents split up when I was four. Mom had us on the weekdays and dad had the weekends and summers. Derren was older than I by two years and Max was two years younger. Middle Child Syndrome was definitely proven in my case.

During the week, mom was going to college and teaching at a middle school as well. We didn't get much quality time with her other than going roller skating once a week at the local rink. That was enough for me. It was fun to laugh with her.

Mom never cursed or yelled. She shook me once or twice, but I'm sure I deserved worse. I was a rotten disrespectful kid. She was always patient and loving with me.

My brothers and I definitely lived the split family life, the epitome of a broken home. Friday after school mom would pack us up for our weekends at Dad's. He worked nights so we spent a lot of time with our grandparents.

The Andrews were my mother's parents, two most amazing and supportive people I will ever know.

Their house was like a castle to me as a child. God knows I was grandpa's princess. The house was located just blocks from a private lake where I spent summers swimming and winters ice-skating. This was a very privileged community.

There were never any worries at the Andrews. My brothers and I were always safe and loved with them. Both my grandma and grandpa were well educated so reading and learning was a must. I will never forget Billy Goat's Gruff and Where the Wild Things Are. Long after, I learned to read, they both took joy in continuing to read to us.

Grandma made flash cards for math and grandpa taught me to count cards with the proper rules of Blackjack. This paid off more than once as an adult.

No one ever was yelled at, or hit at the Andrews' or got stabbed in the head with a fork for saying something stupid during dinner. Dad's punishments were completely unnecessary.

Grandpa would always let me cry. I never felt weak, worthless or small for having feelings around him. He tried for years to get me to counseling for my anger “issues”. I could not bring myself to tell him that my dad thought counseling was a “quitter's way out” and wouldn't let me. I took the quitter's way

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