When I was a kid she'd get three newspapers every day. Two obviously based in NYC but one was from upstate "where the winters are white and streets are lined with flowers once the weather warms." When I say upstate I mean, way up in the Adirondacks where the seasons are at full throttle. Now I can see that it was her daily escape. She wished for that normal life on a tree-lined street with a good husband and nice kids. Somehow she equated the idea of leaving the city as a way to maybe change what she already had, but for the better.

One week every summer we would go up to Lake George where my grandparents had a cottage. Mom was always so happy to get away and dad, well he hated having to leave the city. His drinking buddies. His other women. There was always a lot of resentment coming from my father. Even before I was old enough to grasp what it was, I remember feeling it. My brother though, he never cut him a break ever. When i was maybe five or six I knew that dad didn't seem to like us much but it never really occurred to me that it mattered because we had mom. Dad was always angry and loud so I just tried to stay out of his way. I don't even think I feared him at that age. I was just already self-programmed to cut out if he walked into the room and sat down.

The week before my 6th birthday we were returning from the Lake after what was a really explosive week. Dad was fighting with everyone or no one, over everything and nothing. I couldn't wait to get home but the car ride back was just torture. It was dark by the time we were back in the city and my father had ranted most of the way home. As we hit the bridge my brother muttered, "Thank god."

Two simple words of relief. The nightmare was almost over. We'd be out of that car soon. My father, sensing the relief in my brother's voice, asked what he meant by the comment. I mean, it was self-explanatory really and a sentiment my mother and I both shared. I don't think my brother even managed to get a word out before my father pulled over to the side and started screaming at him. Running down the list of imagined things wrong with his son as he so often liked to do. He got out of the car, pulling my brother who was seated directly behind him out as well, dragging him over to the edge of the bridge. He was yelling something about throwing him over and my mother jumped out of the car screaming. I couldn't even look.