Identities page 2

spicy over sweet any day. I could smell it in the fall, when he’d come in from teaching our first born to ride her bike without training wheels, when he’d look at her and be sickened by the thought that she was born of my blood. I could feel it when he’d stay awake long enough for the ball to drop to welcome the new millennium year as he didn’t kiss me. But most of all, when he looked at me, I still felt that other person inside of me, looking back at him, with greed, with envy, with a hate so strong I would almost black out from the pressure in my temples.I remember actually waking up on the couch when he would come home from work, drugs still laying on the coffee table, our daughters watching cartoons, taking care of me. The last thing I remember is telling him goodbye, and being taken over by the pressure that overcomes me. Our bed that was freshly made before my husband left was freshly messed and ruined before he got home. When he walked through the doors he accused me of blacking out because of my addiction.“Sweetheart, take your sissy and go to your room real fast. Daddy’s going to put mommy to bed,” he’d say to her as if he were about to help me, instead of scream at me.He’d take me into our bedroom and then ask me a series of questions pertaining to the sheets, and me being passed out on our couch. “Natasha. You need to pull yourself together. I come home to both of our girls watching TV with you passed out, again. When was the last time you fed them? How can I trust you?” But as he was yelling at me, I saw the smallest shadow at the base of the door and motioned towards it. But the moment he went silent, the shadow fled. It was our oldest; she wouldn’t allow her sister to come to the door. She was too protective over everything she loved. She knew by intuition what was happening. Our baby, our little six year old, was the smartest of the four of us. My husband decided to ask our Bishop if I could become the secretary, since he needed one. He was tired of me getting into trouble.Before I started to cry, I walked to the kitchen to get a drink. Tears immediately flooded my eyes when I saw our oldest daughter left a mess of peanut butter and jelly. It must have been there a while because the peanut butter was starting to mold to the counter. Then I saw one sandwich lying on the living room table with a small glass of milk. I presumed this one to be the one my daughter made for me… Tears began to pour from my face.I ran outside on the porch and stood in the rain.  continued on page 3.