It was November, 2001. My baby was six months old and I no longer had a job. The car had been repossessed, not because of a late payment but because I couldn’t afford the comprehensive insurance required until it was paid off. Thus, I was primarily stuck at home. I didn’t mind since I had been housewife and mother for many years. But I simply couldn’t get back into the old routines. I’d had my tubes tied to prevent any further pregnancies, to avoid the nightmare of the last one. But Bill’s drinking and abuse continued, every night. The screaming, the griping, the name calling—late into the nights, usually, and the only sleep I could manage were naps during the day. The arguments continued over who would do what—namely, I or my oldest daughter would do it all and he would do nothing but drink.

Money was tight and I still hadn’t found another job yet. But the lack of income didn’t stop the expense of his drinking. More than once, he would take the last twenty dollars before payday, a few days before, and spend it all on alcohol for himself. Nothing changed, no matter the situation. He drank and turned vicious, nightly. Tired of the tirades and rampages, I fought back to the best of my ability but the household chores were neglected. I tried to write but the situation affected any creativity I still possessed. It went on and on with no end in sight. Until my daughter woke me from a early afternoon nap. Someone at the door wanted to talk to me.

I pulled on the first clothes I could grab and went to the door. A Child Protective Services investigator asked several questions about the state of the house, which was really awful. Honestly, I had neglected housework for a while except the bare minimum. I resented Bill’s stance on the issue and inadvertently went on strike. The CPS workers left but returned a short time later with the police. I won’t detail the particulars of the case here, that is not my purpose. They took all three of my children into custody, charging me with ‘contributing to the delinquency of a minor’, the charge they use to take children from their homes. I couldn’t stop them but I called Bill at work and told him. That night, I also got drunk, but he was far worse. He ranted and raged at the injustice of it all but I, deep down, realized that something was seriously wrong here and housework was only part of it. However, there was little I could do at that point.