I hated having positive memories about Mama because they filled me with dread only one of my kind could know. They made me feel gross from the inside. The positive memories made me feel like I enjoyed the bad stuff. And it was so hard because I couldn’t have a positive memory without the bad stuff riding in close behind. If I could tell a parent one thing, it would be this: you can be the best damn parent in the world Monday through Saturday but if you hit your kid on Sunday, that’s all the kid will remember. Your hand and the hurt, the anger in your eyes.
