Roof over my Head

Grandma and Grandpa had a little boy. It was a “late in life pregnancy”. He was three years younger than me. 20 years younger than the Giant.

In the Philippines, before I came to the United States, I was the youngest child, the baby. I felt secure, happy and loved in the arms of my Lola.

Here in the States, I was the oldest child and of no blood relation. I was not the first grandchild, I was not blood related. I was an intruder.

Jeffrey was the baby. Bridget was perfect and I was lost here in a family not mine.

One morning, I heard voices up in the attic. I climbed the steep stairs to see what was happening. Grandma stood yelling at mom and mom was crying. Mom was trying to talk to her, but Grandma just kept yelling. When Grandma walked past me and back down the stairs mom went back to scrubbing the wall. Mom just looked at me, tears still streaming down from her eyes. She looked at me and asked “why?”, “why did you have to do this!?!?”

What did I do? I don’t know what I did. Please, ….. what did I do? I was confused but then she pointed to the wall and I understood. I had done a bad thing. I had gotten mom in trouble and I made Grandma yell at Mom.

Being in the attic, high up and away from the others in the house, it was scary. Being up there alone was scarier. Having to navigate my way down the stairs, in the dark to go to the bathroom was terrifying. And after my fall, I preferred to stay in bed until I absolutely could no longer hold it in. But, I made messes on the wall. I wiped my hands on the walls. The wall was all a mess. Grandma was mad at mom because I made the mess and no one was watching or checking. There was a terrible mess on the wall and mom had to scrub it clean.

Not long after the fight that Mom and Grandma had, we moved out of a grandma and Grandpa’s house. That was the end of that roof over my head.