Here on the coast, it rains more often than not. I find myself missing my old home in Texas when the weather drags my mood down. If there was a way to go back down south in a flash, I’d be there basking in the sunlight like a happy fat cat. Sometimes, I lose myself in a daydream thinking about it.
I miss the house I shared with my family, all the memories that it holds, and the warm feelings of comfort that it brought when I would come home from a horrible day at school. I even miss the not-so-great memories with one person in particular.
I remember sharing my room with my younger cousin, Megan. She’s a few years my junior and was much more into the social aspect of being a teenager than I. She’d sneak her phone after bedtime and hide in our closet, texting for hours. Anytime I brought up the fact that she should be sleeping, she’d shush me and then close the door on herself again.
Over the course of a year, she had gotten into a large amount of trouble. She was caught stealing from lockers at the school, harassing one of the boys on the football team to the point that he needed to reach out to the principal, and had tried to sneak out on multiple occasions to go to house parties. I was never like that, so I couldn’t wrap my head around her behavior.
She had been staying with us to get away from her mother, Shelly. Shelly was abusive in every sense of the word. To this day, I’m still frightened by that woman. I now realize that she had some extreme mental health issues that needed attending to, but back then I was unaware of what that meant.
Before my mother was on her feet after some traumatic events, we stayed with Shelly and my cousins. My brother and I would be left with Shelly, Cody, and Megan while Mom was at work. I can’t recall exactly what I had done to set Shelly off in this particular memory, but I can still hear her screaming “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!” through the slammed master-bedroom door as loud as she could possibly manage.
She would force us all to drink milk, which caused my stomach to twist and turn. I’m lactose intolerant and she knew about this. She would give us these strange looks, as though she was trying to blow us up with her squint-eyed stares when we would speak above a whisper. Her grip on our wrists would get so tight, we’d end up with bruises that turned dark blue a few moments after she let go.
My brother and I never spoke up against her, fearing we’d be kicked out and our mother wouldn’t have anywhere to go. We thought that we would be living out of her Rav-4 in a parking lot. It would have broken our hearts to see Mom cry like she had a few months prior, so we kept quiet.
It didn’t take Mom too long to finally get us a small house on the outskirts of town. We ended up renting a place from the mayor, which I thought was cool. Things got better as soon as we were settled. We moved a couple more times over the years and then my family offered a place to my cousin Megan, knowing her home life wasn’t what she lead us to believe.
Megan began stealing my things out of my closet, selling them, and then coming home from the mall with a lot of new items. This became a habit and I let my dad know what she was doing. He wasn’t too thrilled to hear it, but he knew that it wasn’t in my nature to lie. When Megan was confronted, she put on a major show, not sparing any waterworks.
Next thing I knew, my Uncle Martin showed up out of the blue. He tried to defend Megan, forcing me to apologize for accusing her of such a thing. My dad got proof eventually and made the situation right. Megan never stole from me again.
We haven’t really talked since then either. Sure, we’ve said hi to each other and faked chatting during family gatherings, but we don’t put in any effort to catch up with one another. She doesn’t like to admit to anything that she’s done. I’ve seen her try to ruin someone’s life for crossing her. The girl transferred schools within a week.
I love my cousin, but I don’t ever want to live with her again. Hopefully, neither of us end up in a position that calls for such an action again. These aren't exactly happy memories, but when I look back at them, I am happy I am not like my cousin. I'm glad I wasn't forced to live in her situation as long as she had been. I do feel sorry for her and what she had to go through, but at the same time, I'm relieved that my home life turned out better.
If she were to need someone, even after all of the lies and other negative junk, I'd be there for her in a heartbeat. When I was growing up, I was taught to always stick up for those who need you. She's my family. As rotten as she may have been in the past, we should always be able to extend a helping hand to the ones we love.
