2/27/2024 0 Comments Lynne marta deathThe judge awarded custody to her mother, not that it made much difference. Stacey clutched her stuffed elephant as a lamp smashed off the living room wall and angry words hovered in the air. The relationship came to head when her father was caught in bed with another woman. “Keep the noise down,” an officer said on one such visit, indifferent to the black eye her mother donned and the scratches running down her father’s left cheek. The arguments were vulgar and deafening, often resulting in neighbors calling the cops. When they were still together, her father worked on and off, mostly off, and drank what money he made. Stacey’s parents divorced when she was five. “You’re just like that good for nothing father of yours,” her mother yelled, which of course wasn’t true. It was just another sadistic remark from a mother who couldn’t care less about the daughter she hardly knew. “Yeah, well, I have to keep on you about these things. “I already took the garbage out, Ma, remember?” “Get this filthy beast out of my sight,” her mother continued, kicking at the cat as he made a mad dash for the other side of the room. ![]() Teaspoon, the family’s orange Tabby, ran for a crust of bread imbedded in the rug. Ashtrays piled the coffee table while remnants of breakfast littered the floor. “Take the garbage out, Stacey,” her mother bellowed from the couch. But living in a two-bedroom apartment with her newly divorced mother was far from bliss. It wasn’t a lot for a young woman of seventeen to ask for.
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