One of my mom’s preferred songs has constantly been “Simple Man,” with the aid of Lynyrd Skynyrd, as it encompassed her best aspirations for me. “All I need for you, my son, is to be satisfied.” Try as I might, and in spite of her best hopes for me, it'd take me many long years to discover this happiness… It constantly begins the same: flashbacks roll like film clips, caused with the aid of just about anything. A whiff of a cigarette. The sound of human beings yelling. My children’s laughter… Instantly I’m transported to a time in my lifestyles when I felt helpless, worthless, and ashamed. I think of the room wherein my sister and I would take refuge from the brutal storm created by means of my parents’ fighting. I think of the empty bedroom in which my brother ought to have been, but instead all I see is the painful reminiscence of him handcuffed, over and over again. I ducked and dodged the never-ending interest of teenage life, knowing how at any moment, I may be the following rumor floating around school if anybody knew how we lived. The feeling of a mop bucket in a single hand and a cigarette in another, I would observe my mirrored image in cloudy water and wonder, became this all my destiny held?