I'm not my mother

I think I had a fairly average childhood

My parents divorced when I was rather young

My mother became a working single mother of three

As everyone does, she did what she thought was best

I recall clearly the first time I recognised fear in her eyes

I was a child of age ten, home after school

She came and asked how I had explained the bruises to people at school

"The truth" was my reply to her, but of course I had lied

In that moment I recognised fear, before she turned and walked away

She who demanded truth in the home, had expected, needed, me to lie

The truth was, she had given me the bruises the night before

The truth was, I had forgotten to wash my school clothes

The truth was, a leather belt she struck me with had left visible dark bruises

It was a similar truth that made me decide to take up smoking

Aged twelve, I was woken one morning by a hairbrush being hit hard on my back

My mother had found a packet of cigarettes in my bag

The truth was, they really weren't mine and I refused to smoke them

The screaming and hitting didn't subside with the truth however

So as I waited for the school bus that morning I asked my friend for a smoke.