The violence continued.

While my aunt was in prison (more on that story here), I took care of the two cats she left behind. One of them wasn’t doing well, and eventually, it crossed the rainbow bridge. I was heartbroken, but then my father told me he was going to get me a new kitten. I was thrilled.

I ran to my grandparents’ house to tell them the good news.

But their response was an immediate no. At the time, I was crushed. Looking back now, it made perfect sense. They were already paying for everything—our food, our bills, our lives—because my father couldn’t hold down a job. Of course they couldn’t support another mouth to feed.

Disappointed, I walked back to the trailer to tell my dad. He instantly became furious and dragged me back to my grandparents’ house to confront them. I begged him not to get mad, but there was no stopping him.

He told them he was the father, and he made the decisions—not them.
They reminded him that he wasn’t taking care of the responsibilities he already had.

My grandma reached out to try to calm him down, to stop the yelling—and he punched her in the face. She hit the floor. My grandfather stepped in to protect her, and I watched in horror as they exchanged blows. Yelling. Swearing. Fighting. It was the first and only time I ever heard my grandfather say the F-word.

I screamed for them to stop. I ran to the bedroom and called 911.

But my father knew where I went. He ripped the phone from my hand, tore it from the wall, and dragged me back to the trailer.

He sat on the couch, rocking in fear. “They’re going to arrest me,” he mumbled, eyes darting.

What seemed like an eternity later, there was a knock at the door.

“Meridian Police Department!”

He was arrested and hauled away in handcuffs. He cried the whole way out, claiming it was self-defense.

I walked back to my grandparents’ house where they were giving their statement. I still wonder to this day why they never asked me what happened. After they left, I found my grandma sobbing in her room. I held her, as she collapsed in my arms.

We all prayed that this would be the moment he stayed gone. That we would finally be safe.

But the next day, one of his friends bailed him out.

He came home, full of apologies, crying, denying he ever touched my grandmother—even though her face was bruised and her glasses were broken. He claimed she hit him first. We all knew the truth. He promised (like he always did) that he would never do it again. And no one pressed charges.

We were living in fear and the utter lack of involvement from law enforcement left us feeling abandoned by the very people that were supposed to keep us safe.

I was only 12 years old when I packed my bags and told my grandparents I couldn’t live like this anymore.

I told them I was going to run away and make my own way—or they needed to find a safe place for me to go. I don’t know how I had that kind of strength at that age, but we all knew something had to change. And it wasn’t going to be him.

So they begged my aunt and uncle to take me in.

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The Goodbye That Changed Everything

The day I walked out of that trailer, my father was sitting on the couch with a woman I feared more than most. She had broken into our home before—armed with brass knuckles and two men in tow—screaming, threatening, violent. They fought over drugs and money then. Now she was back, fresh out on parole, eating fried chicken with him like nothing ever happened.

Disgusted, I walked past them, straight to the door.

“Goodbye,” I said.

He asked, “How long will you be gone?”

I turned to him and said, “I’m never coming back.”
And I slammed the door behind me.

This time, he didn’t chase me.

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To Be Continued…

That was the beginning of my escape—but not the end of the trauma. In future posts, I’ll share what life looked like after leaving, how I struggled to reclaim a sense of safety, and the long path toward healing.

If you’ve ever felt trapped by fear or silenced by chaos, know this: you are not alone. Your story doesn’t define you. You do not have to be the victim of your circumstance. You have the power to rewrite your story and change your legacy for those to come. There is light at the end of the tunnel. My goal is to show you that you too can rise from the ashes and be the beautiful soul that you were meant to be.

I believe in you.

Subscribe or follow to hear the next chapter. Because the story doesn’t end with running.

Much love,

Beth