When I was little, my six siblings, my parents and I shared a brick house on a wooded street in the middle of the country and, in many ways, our lives were pleasant and uncomplicated. I played outside until the street lights came on, and Mom served dinner every night on our big round table with a lazy Susan in the middle.
In other ways, my life was not idyllic. One night, when my family gathered to pray the rosary before bed, one of my brothers started giggling and soon all three were laughing out of control. My dad whipped off his belt and lashed out. I ran as fast as I could and hid in my spot under the bed I shared with my sisters. The metal bed frame a few feet above my face made a pattern of little boxes in the dim light. With my finger, I traced the curlicues of the springs and heard the sound of the belt.
