We were always running. My mum and me. Packing up what few belongs we had and moving in a new direction. No particular place. Just moving. I was never sure who or what we were running from but no sooner had we settled and no sooner had I made a few friends, and we were off again.
When I was six I loved it. By age 10 I was getting tired of it. Now, aged 16, I rebel against it. Or at least I try to. My mother’s hold on me is not only physically strong but mentally too. She knows all the right things to say to guilt trip me into doing whatever she wants.
And so we run.
Into the arms of new schools, new friends, new men and a new home but never long enough to build strong bonds.
Once my mother got one of her “feelings” or woke up to one of her “dreams” I knew what came next. Leaving another familiar life behind us and working towards making a new one.
Not this time though. This time, aged 19, I am ahead of her. I have left without her. I am five months pregnant and I can’t stay here because the father of this baby is a little crazy. In my dream last night he tried to kill us both. I woke up with a really strong feeling that he might just do it. And so I packed up and I left leaving a note saying I have gone for good.
I have four months of moving to do until the baby is born. It’s a girl.