I was eight when I figured that out, watching from my bedroom window as my mother and her boyfriend argued in the garden. His name was Gary, and he drank a lot. And not because he was thirsty.

Mum’s words were screeches, Gary’s were slurs, and, for a little while, they were only fighting with their voices. Then he threw the garbage can lid at her, and she crumpled, her knees cracking on the path. Picturing her now, I see her arms held tight against her belly and tears dripping on the flower bed.

Mum says most memories are Post-its on the fridge door of your life. But a few, she says, are tattoos on your soul. This is one of those memories. What I learned is that anything can be a weapon if you know how to use it.

The lid was metal and dented. Gary held it over her, casting a shadow across her pleading face. He yelled things I didn’t understand. Then Mum caught my eye, and Gary turned and smiled and waved.

The worst part? I waved back. I still hate myself for not doing anything—for not knowing what to do.

When bad things happen miles away, it’s easy to say you’d be a hero. But, when it happens to you, especially when you’re eight, it’s not so easy.

Gary’s arms stiffened, then he brought the lid down hard and fast, my mother screaming as it stopped inches from her face. He laughed, tossed it aside, and went to the pub.

All night, Mum made crying noises, tiny ones she whispered over, like she was shushing them to sleep. I lay awake, too scared to touch her, because, sometimes, the easiest things in the world, like a hug or a smile or an “Are you okay?” feel impossible.

In the morning, I watched her secretly, in between cereal bites and toothbrush brushes, and, when she caught me, she smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

My mum had a lot of boyfriends, but some were worse than others.

2

Four tiny holes in my new bedroom door. That’s the first thing I notice.

And then a bigger one on the frame, flaking at the edges, and a curve where the dark wood turns light, a crescent just deep enough for a bolt to slide back and forth.

My stepsister’s door has eight holes, each set of four not quite level, as if whoever drilled them was fixing a mistake. I hunt for holes and find them everywhere, except for Mum and Jay’s room. Their door is perfect, the frame untouched, and that’s when I realize what happened here. Our dream home, the house Mum fell in love with the moment she saw it, was someone else’s nightmare, because these holes aren’t where you’d expect them to be. The locks weren’t on the inside to keep people out.