by Ann Linen (Author)
It's ironic that one of my first memories as a child is of me sitting on a love-seat, coloring an outline of a treasure chest overflowing of jewels and gold coins in the midst of a heated argument between my mother and a relatively new step-father. I watched as my mother hurled pots and pans toward him. He in return, continued yelling at the top of his lungs with his index finger and little finger directed towards her with the look on his face that implied his desire to have bullets streaming from his fingers. Denny soon said he was leaving. Once she realized he was in the car, she ran out the door for him in her long night gown and was begging him to return. The next morning, I sat in the garage looking down the driveway waiting for his return with a feeling in my gut that has returned far too many times throughout my life. That was in small mid-western town. and there were many small towns in countless states.