20s (part-one) Chapter 5

Part one– Early Twenties

The Night I Stopped Belonging.

Before I found my twenties, I had to survive one last night of my teens.I was just twenty, and it was just another day—until it wasn’t. Mam had been out all day, and when she came home, she drove the car straight into one of the brick pillars on the driveway. Didn’t even flinch. Drunk as a skunk. Just got out, muttered something about having a job interview the next day, and asked my brother if she could borrow his car. He said no. It was Dad’s car really, and it was in his name. And he had stipulated only he could drive it. That’s when she lost it. Started shouting, lashing out. I tried to step in and calm things down—tried to protect him—but in the blink of an eye, her anger turned on me.She grabbed me by the hair, shoved me down onto the sofa, and punched me. Then came the blow I’ll never forget—her knee straight into my eye. A ringing shot through my head, like a siren going off in my ears. I was dazed, stunned, and she was still raging.I ran, stumbled really, into the bathroom and locked the door. She kicked it down. My brother ran to the phone box to call our dad, but by then she had barged into the bathroom too. She kicked the sliding partition between the toilet and the bath off its roller, and I ended up clutching it like some kind of shield while she pushed it over and over against me. Somehow—adrenaline maybe—I shoved her back and bolted. I ran out of the house just as my father’s car was pulling up the road. My brother was with him.“Get in,” my dad said. And then, with the coldest calm:“Your brother doesn’t have a black eye. You must’ve wound her up. You should learn to keep your mouth shut.”That moment hit harder than any punch. He didn’t protect me. He blamed me. Again.Not long after that, I left for Cardiff. I felt guilty leaving my brother behind, but I couldn’t survive in that house anymore. I’d already lost too much of myself.

Outro

I left that house carrying more than just a black eye. I carried silence, shame, and the kind of guilt that doesn’t belong to the person who’s been hurt — but somehow still sticks to their skin.I packed my bags with bruises and memories, but I also packed a small, burning hope — that somewhere, anywhere, might be different. I didn’t know what Cardiff would hold for me. But I knew what staying would cost. And that was the night I stopped trying to belong in a place that never truly saw me.