Silent Cry Read Online Free

She had gotten married when she was just eighteen and moved away to California. Even though she was far away, she wrote me letters, encouraged me to do well in school, and counseled me about things in my life that troubled me. She was my link to a world bigger than our small Louisiana community, and I was hungry to discover things outside our little circle.
    I knew I was destined for greater things. I believed God had a purpose for my life that was bigger than anything I could yet imagine. And yet there was a shadow lurking — a dark shadow that cast its coldness over everything warm and beautiful and good.

M y stepfather, Lester, was a wonderful, loving man — until he drank. I often wondered
if
the
alcohol revealed his true nature, or if the drink itself was responsible for his
vicious behavior. Though I can’t remember a single day he didn’t get up and go to
work, as I got older, there were fewer and fewer nights he came home right after
work. Instead, he went into town and poured himself into a bottle until nothing of
his gentle nature remained.
    The good times became careful times. The careful times became difficult times, and
it wasn’t long until we were in really bad shape. Lester continued working every
day, but money stopped coming into the household. Liquor led to gambling. The greater
the losses at the gambling table, the greater his need for alcohol. He stumbled home
late at night, filled to the brim with rage, and took out his frustrations on my
mother.
    She tried everything to calm him down — fixing him hot food in the middle of the
night, figuring out what she had done to displease him, and trying to change herself
in hopes of somehow making him better. It wasn’t long until evidence of extramarital
affairs appeared, and when my mother confronted him, things got even worse. The more
his life spun out of control, the more he fought to dominate and control our little
world at home. Abuse became an everyday reality, and my mother was locked in the
crosshairs of his anger and violence.
    When there was no longer enough money even for food, my mother began looking for
work. Because she couldn’t read, I went with her to help her fill out job applications.
After weeks of searching, she landed a job as a custodian at our school in Buras,
Louisiana. It was the only school in town, and everyone from kindergarteners through
high school seniors attended there. My mother was so excited to have a job and make
her own money. She could work during the same hours we were in school and then be
home with us when school let out.
    In order to stretch our meager budget, my mother supplemented our meals with scraps
she brought home from the school cafeteria. She wasn’t stealing, mind you. She brought
home only what the children threw away. She prayed over it, cut off any edges that
had bite marks, and developed creative ways to turn this castaway cuisine into something
we could survive on. When I discovered what she was doing, I was horrified and disgusted.
At the time, I didn’t see it as resourceful and brave. I didn’t understand how committed
she was to our survival — no matter what.
    My mother scrimped and was frugal, but she also loved to be generous whenever she
could. I will never forget the first Christmas after she had a job. We rarely received
Christmas presents or birthday gifts, but my mother had carefully saved a portion
of each paycheck until she had enough money to buy something special for each of
us. My sisters and I received monogram rings, and the boys each got a bicycle. I’ll
never know how she did it, but she found a way. No matter how tight money was or
how tired she was from working or fending off my stepfather, she always found ways
to do special things for us and express her love for us.

    Living in a small, close-knit community meant everyone knew everyone else’s business.
When my stepfather came home raging in the middle of the night, my