Chapter 3: The Contrast

My dad worked in another country for almost a decade. He would spend nine months there working and three months at home. Every time he came back, he brought so many things — TVs, guitars, a video cassette player, a stereo system with disco lights, radios, CDs, cassette tapes — and more.

He also brought watches, which helped me learn to tell the time.

He liked playing guitar, even though he was still teaching himself using a book. He loved music, so we had speakers in both the living room and the bedroom — all connected. The music would fill both floors of the house.

Each room had a TV, so I could watch horror movies and other things at night.

But what we most looked forward to most were the dozens of chocolates — some white, some dark, some with almonds, and some with filling. My favorite was white chocolate.

Where I’m from, most celebrations are Catholic. Each small town has its own saint, Our Lady, or figure to pray to. Public festivities are held in their honor — usually with live concerts every night. Some last a weekend, others a week or even longer. This happens once a year.

We used to go to the festivals and dance and have a good time. My dad taught me how to dance. He would dance with me and with my mom. There were specific foods we’d eat during those times, like small snails and lupin beans, and even ice cream that was only available during the festivities. There were also balloons, toys, and carnival-style entertainment for kids — rides that spun, went up and down fast, and so on.

We weren’t perfect, though. I always noticed a certain negative pattern with my mom. She was always rushing to cook and serve my dad's food — usually bringing it to him in bed. Sometimes we’d all eat at the table, but when he was home after being away so long, he preferred staying in bed watching TV with my mom beside him.

We sometimes joined them too. That part wasn’t the issue.

The real issue was that only his meal seemed to matter. Once he had his food, ours wasn’t really a priority. We were expected to take care of ourselves.

And yet, during that time, she still cooked for us. Most of the time, she did.

But still… I noticed the imbalance.

After my grandma passed away, everything started to deteriorate even more. My mom began spending more time away whenever my dad wasn’t home. The house became filthy. There were dirty dishes with rotten food on the table. Buckets and pans with maggots were in the corridor, living room, and kitchen. Clean and dirty clothes were all mixed together, so laundry had to be redone constantly — even freshly washed clothes got mixed in and had to be rewashed. It became her biggest excuse to go out and stay away for hours.

We had many public fountains where people washed clothes manually. Some of them even had water safe for drinking. Each fountain had a sign stating whether the water was potable or not. In the cities, for some reason, a few of them weren’t controlled.

I may not have mentioned it before, but my grandma’s house was so clean and organized that it smelled like cleaning products. The wood floor was waxed and shining. She never let dishes pile up. Even though my mom did the heaviest work, my grandma kept the house in perfect condition.

I had issues. I wet the bed until I was 16 years old. My mom wasn’t particularly interested in changing the bedding or finding a real solution, so I’d often stay wet and smell like pee most of the time. If I wanted my room clean, organized, and with a fresh bed, I had to take care of it myself. I took prescribed pills from the doctor, but they didn’t help at all.

My brother continued bringing more boys to our home. My room was dark — it had no windows. Only one small fixed frosted glass panel between my room and my brother’s allowed light to come in. We would play in the “dark room,” as we called it. They would turn off the lights, and we had to search for each other and guess who it was. I didn’t mind — until two boys touched me inappropriately. I immediately turned the lights on. That was scary. I felt vulnerable. And I learned to stay silent.

If I had the courage I have now, I would have told my dad everything. But there was no trust, no comfort, no safety. Nothing felt safe enough to speak.

Before my dad came home from work — which took two days or a bit less if he didn’t stop along the way — we would spend those days cleaning nonstop. Day and night, we threw away trash bags, scrubbed the wood floors, sorted clothes, washed dishes, cleaned restrooms, made beds, and more. I was sleepy and exhausted, but we had to keep going. Sometimes I stayed up until 1 a.m. or later — I simply couldn’t stay awake any longer.

I remember one day, my dad arrived early, and we hadn’t finished cleaning the living room floor. My mom hid some trash under the carpet. My dad noticed.

A few days later, my mom asked me to go buy fresh bread. It was less than five minutes away. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t listen — said it would be quick. I went, but while I waited, I started feeling worse. My vision got blurry and dark. I felt like I was about to faint, so I sat down quickly to avoid falling and hurting myself.

A woman saw me and carried me home. When she knocked on the door, my mom opened it. The lady told her I had a fever and that I had wet myself. My mom only asked, “She didn’t know how to change her clothes?”

That was very comforting. Yes — I’m being sarcastic.

I was already feeling unwell, almost fainting, with a fever. But she was more concerned with saving face and dismissing what happened.

After that, I went to bed. I believe my mom gave me some medication for the fever. I don’t remember clearly, but I think she did. I’m sure she told my dad what happened — but he didn’t take action. He didn’t even come to my room to check on me.

Let this be a reminder: active parenting matters. A child who feels abandoned, neglected, and ignored will never trust you enough to share anything — not even abuse. Because they already feel abused and afraid.

Neglect is a form of gaslighting. And yes, it is abuse.

After my dad left for work again, my brother kept bringing boys over — even to smoke. Yes, that’s right. As a kid, he and his friends were already smoking. I remember being in his room watching a movie on his computer. The smoke was so thick you could barely see anything.

But if you think that was the worst…

I had access to things no child should be exposed to. Toys, adult video cassettes, kids and older men watching them with my brother — and I was there. I lived there. Where else could I go?

I even called some of the phone numbers shown on the videos. I was just a kid. I didn’t even know what I was calling for. I spent so much money on the phone — oh my God. My dad only beat me three times in my life, and that was one of them.

But don’t worry — I didn’t learn the lesson right away. Not yet.

My mom assigned my brother some chores, but he didn’t want to do them. So, he would try to force me to do them instead. The result was never good. I was pulled down the stairs. I was locked out on the terrace for hours until my mom returned home.

My home became a very scary place.

Comparing my grandma’s era to my mom’s was like comparing life to death. The contrast was huge. My life was chaotic. I was always on edge, alert, trying to defend myself or react the best way I could.

But I was just a child.

My brother brought an older man to our home. He was his “friend.” What a friend.

He started making inappropriate invitations and offers — always in an intimidating way. He told me to do things for him, threatening me if I said anything. My brother saw it and understood it very well. He even looked at me with judgment, like I had chosen it — as if he wasn’t the one who had brought this man into our home.

A couple of times, that man offered me toys. But I never cared about them. I just felt like I had no choice.

And still… he kept coming over. For at least two or three years.

I had the urge to flee. I even thought about running down the stairs. But I was frozen. Paralyzed in fear.

The worst belief a child can have is that they are hopeless — that they don’t have a choice.

And I remember thinking, “Where is my mom? I don’t have any protection. I can’t do anything.”