Shhhh, Mama’s still asleep. At age five, I stood on my tip-toes and reached in the pantry for the big jar of peanut butter and bread. Being careful not to scratch the kitchen floor, I inched a chair to the counter to make a sandwich. I wanted to eat while I walked to kindergarten. I even remembered to wash the messy knife.

But I was too loud.

Her feet stomped behind me. She held a belt in her fist. “Why haven’t you left yet!” She whipped my skinny legs. “Stupid, don’t you know anything?”

Then Mama handed me a quarter to buy candy. Maybe she’s sorry this time.

I bought a Hershey bar and inhaled sweetness through the dark wrapper. After a nibble, I decided to save for the rest for later. Something to look forward to. A patrol guard at school spotted my chocolate. She demanded that I hand it over.

Giving away my Hershey bar, I stared at the sidewalk. Peeking back, I saw the girl eat it. Don’t cry. I clicked my pretend control button to kill my feelings.

Even before age five, evil lies had wormed holes into my soul, heart, and memory:

            You can’t trust anybody.

            Nobody loves you.

            You’re messy, stinky, and stupid.

I added Patrol Girl to the list of people who’d hurt me. Self-hatred and bitterness settled in my heart like cement.